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The Garden 
m. The S$^ildernei\? 




A MOON- 
PIERCED forest" 











The Garden 






in the 






Wilderness 






BY 






A HERMIT 






\iim i>^^ ,N^-^. 






ILLUSTRATED BY 






THE AUTHOR 






<Sf BENTLEY 




I p. 


New York 


THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY 


1909 



Copyright, 1909, by 
THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY 



Published, October, 1909 






K\<, 



248660 



THE PREMIER PRESS, NEW YORK 



To 
Dora L. P, 

The Sweetest Hardy Perennial 
in My Small Garden 
of Friends 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



A moon-pierced forest ' ' 

Incubating a twenty-year feud ' ' 

Mr. Schweinehunden 

The hot-bed 

The Grieg " Spring-time " 

The rose-garden . 

Pines back of the house 

Bentley has been on his knees to 
all summer" 



that celery 



The joyous wife of Ferrara" 

The heights above " 

A good old wheel-barrow ' ' 

Sumach, from the studio window 

The corn we planted the day the bear came 

When the hour of payment arrived ' ' 

Our first November snow" 

The ravine rocks ..... 



Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

12 
16 
26 
40 
58 
106 

122 
138 
148 
158 
172 
188 
198 
204 
208 



The Garden 
In The Sft^ildernei? 



The Garden 
In The SS^ildernei? 




THE wilderness was purchased from a 
bold sea captain, who had been so 
inaccessibly upon the high seas and 
so invisible, we had come to regard him as 
the real Flying Dutchman. The finalities of 
the purchase, including.the exchange of both- 
ersome lucre for the redundant title, had 
therefore never been concluded, as the land 
had not been formally surveyed. 

All these blissful months we have been the 
undisputed possessors of all our greedy vision 
could see, including the horizon line. We 
were compassed by no cramping lines; living 

II 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

in an Elysium of elastic borders, which 
stretched or contracted according to the day's 
mood. 

But yesterday a Mephistopheles in blue 
serge accompanied by three diabolical as- 
sistants and a soulless instrument came to shat- 
ter our ideal. The road upon which we have 
our pleasant being is a dear old cow path that 
iV2iS beset with ambitions to be a highway. It 
has, however, never been greatly encouraged 
in its aspirations by the people who live on 
its edges. Each individual has placed his 
fence where it will include the pippins that 
fall from his apple tree, or accommodate the 
extra frills of his cabbage's skirts. 

We who have no fences, trail the trains of 
our lawns as far out on the dusty roadway as 
we deem graceful. I have even appropriated 
the top of a boulder which is on the road and 
by the touch of magic fertilizer and a few kind 
words, have made it to wear a tiara of bloom. 
Last spring as one made the turn in the 
road, it greeted the pilgrim with tall toss- 
ing tulips, which were the floral sign-post that 
read: "This is the way to the home of Kitty 
and Bentley." The tulips lighted the way far 
into June, when their mission was taken up 
by annual coreopsis and nasturtiums, which 

12 




INCUBATING A 
TWENTY-YEAR FEUD' 



'JHE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

later on were succeeded by the fall-blooming 
crocus. 

But when this prosaic surveyor came, he 
impudently insisted the road must be defined 
in order to decide where our line lay, quickly 
placing all of us in the category of trespassing. 
He then ruthlessly went into our harmless 
neighbor's yard and drove a stake which cur- 
tailed her flower garden cruelly; had she not 
been the good Mrs. Merriweather I'm sure 
she would never have spoken to us again. 

As the staking proceeded other neighbors 
sidled up with twenty-year feuds incubating 
in their eyes. The surveyor then began at the 
equator and measured up, and at the North 
Pole and measured down, and found us located 
somewhere betwixt heaven and hell. 

I, in my happy ignorance, thought they 
only longituded the sea, and merely latituded 
the land, but this inexorable man, did both to 
us! We sullenly dogged his every footstep, 
not daring to turn our backs for a minute for 
fear he would loot us of an inch of precious 
soil. 

After a day of racking suspense and no 
lunch, what compensation was it to two aching 
heads to find the stakes placed several feet 
beyond most of the lines they had guessed at? 

13 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

Who would exchange the plastic boundaries 
of imagination for the stern limits of lawful 
lines, even at a gain? 

Before the snow had gone from under the 
pines, Bentley with axe and I with saw in- 
vaded our newly acquired wilderness. It was 
the first time I had used a saw and realized 
the joy, the demoniacal joy of destruction. 
Despite my passionate love of all that grows, 
it was actually difficult to restrain myself from 
sawing down everything in the woods. Bent- 
ley said : "You are a hybrid of George 
Nation and Carrie Washington." 

We only took out the dead branches and 
superfluous sumach, still retaining enough 
of the latter for autumn coloring, but we 
accumulated a brush pile the size of two ele- 
phants. On burning it Friday night all the 
neighbors came over to enjoy this great moun- 
tain of incense burnt to our awakening gar- 
den ; for the time we all understood why there 
are fire-worshippers in this world. 

Mr. Schweinehunden is the gardener, and 
very high boss. Seventy-three years old, he is 
a pathetic statue of toil, and more than three 
score years of wearied muscle. For many 
years he has worked on the railroad beds all 
day and in his vegetables ones by night. Some- 

14 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

times we think he is the "Man in the Moon" 
come down, for not only is his garden worked 
by moonlight, but everything is done by a 
moon-maxim. 

Last year he told us if we planted the onion 
sets in the dark of the moon they would jump 
out of the ground to see the moon when it 
shone again. We were punished later on for 
our lack of faith by having to take turns sit- 
ting on the onions to hold them down. 

Did one ever hear of a gardener who did 
not have a contempt for flowers? 

There stood a wondrous wild rose six feet 
high, of splendid undisciplined width of 
growth, on the north end of the white birch 
and pine barricade of my to-be rose garden. 
When I went out after lunch one day to see 
where the old man had been grubbing I noted 
a wicked gleam of triumph in his curdled old 
eyes. 

With riotous chucklings upheaving his 
Punchinello back, he pointed to the felled 
body of my prized Eglantine and giggled: 
'T'se god one wudhless ding out of dis blace." 
Before my vocabulary had recovered I found 
him aiming with death-dealing axe at the two 
elms whose plumelike tops are the favorite 
hammocks of our bird colony. 

15 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

"But where would my birds swing then?" 

With a sniff he waved scornfully to the 
great pines on the ridge and walked away mut- 
tering: "Der's enuf drees for all voolishness 
in your own garten." 

So he considers all the sensibly cleared land 
as having no relationship whatever to me. 

When I was reviewing my carnation bed 
after its secluded winter under fir branches, 
he walked my way purposely to irritate me. 
"I'd rader zee one gude bodado hill, dan your 
whole garten of plowers," he casually mur- 
mured. 

It takes a garden to express your faults to 
yourself. Now, I've had a garden ever since 
I gave up the bottle — never, of course, a 
real Garden of Paradise like this before, but 
still I've always had a chance to spoil 
my hands each summer. Bentley, on the 
contrary, snatched by art from the country and 
right living, has been defrauded of the soil 
for thirty years and is like a ravenous long- 
starved creature. 

Yet such a selfish pig am I, I will scarcely 
let him touch the earth, trembling in terror if 
he lifts a leaf, dogging his steps to see that he 
does not tread on a precious plant. My recon- 
struction must begin tomorrow; I shall be a 

i6 




MR. SCHWEINEHDNDEN 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

chastened spirit from this time forth, smiling 
in ecstasy when he rakes ofif the earth to see 
why the bulbs don't come up and decapitates 
their tender heads, patting him delightedly on 
the back every time he crushes a too ambitious 
iris. 

When I am on Bentley's trail, if I pause 
by the way five seconds to whiff a blossom, I 
lose him. There are so many sudden turns 
into seclusion, the two and a half acres seem 
miles in radius. I can tire out any unwelcome 
caller by taking her in devious turns and twists 
through its labyrinth of tangle. Mother Na- 
ture very pleasantly made our wilderness a 
fantasy of unbridled loveliness, but it lacked 
just our artistic influence to make it altogether 
perfect. We are going to pay every deference 
to its natural wild beauty, only seizing upon 
its few spots of accidental decorum to plant 
flowers to punctuate its untutored eloquence. 

Just as in a fascinating character of artistic 
chaos it is a relief to come across a few austere 
and conservative traits, so the conventional- 
ism in the rose department will be a foil for 
the wilderness. 

I have laid a rough stone path through 
my front garden. The path meanders sinu- 
ously to the natural break in the thick growth 

17 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

of the first instalment of pines in the wilder- 
ness. It steals with many a turn for backward 
glance, through Shasta daisies, cornflower 
asters, Canterbury bells, foxgloves, columbine 
and the great poppy beds. From the studio 
window to-night I can see the stones gleaming 
in the moonlight and it seems the path from 
realism into fairy. 

Why are paths so alluring? They always 
remind me somehow of ambition, and dreams 
we were too busy to finish, 

Mr. Sams has almost completed the hot-bed. 
It looks like a cow-catcher to the tool-house. 
The tool-house was once the chicken-house, 
but you mustn't tell it, for it resents its former 
chicken lice and has great ambitions now that 
it is the only thing in our family that is to 
have an Easter dress. Tomorrow it is going 
to exchange its old whitewash raiment for 
a wonderful coat of pine-green paint. 

Mr. Sams is the most versatile member of 
our embassy. He does not confine his services 
to hot-beds, but as dexterously makes the 
frames for our paintings and often poses on 
Sundays for Bentley. 



i8 




•©tr c K • 



It is an awful and wonderful thing to look 
from our bedroom window and see 'four backs 
all bent in our service, for today two more 
have been added to our corps. Ferrara, the 
Italian, has been introduced as Mr. Schweine- 
hunden's understudy, while a Van Elken has 
been pressed into service for hauling manure 
and carrying away ash piles which are to form 
the basis of a walk along the neglected front 
of the wilderness skirting the main country 
road. 

I hope Ferrara has a grain of the expected 
Italian poetry in his soul. It was at least 
encouraging that he did not look scorn when 
I pleaded to have two pussy willows spared. 
He has a ravishingly beautiful wife whom I 
long to paint, and a delightfully nebulous 
bambino. 

I remember a relative who boarded with 



19 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

them last summer, a laborer on the railroad, 
who had one of the most lyrical voices I've 
ever heard. Every night we sat breathlessly, 
with feet dangling over the back porch roof, 
listening to the witchery of Neapolitan songs 
which sent our souls drifting far out on Italian 
waters. I furthered my reputation for 
imbecility by carrying him laps full of nas- 
turtiums. 

Isn't it strange how ignorance and incompe- 
tence take things for granted? It is only those 
who strive and know the difficulties of accom- 
plishment who mete out appreciation. The 
other neighbors did not realize one of those 
rare God-given voices of flawless beauty was 
being nightly given them free, a voice New 
York would pay fabulous sums to hear, if the 
public knew of it. I even heard a woman 
complaining of "that miserable Italy-man 
who makes so much noise every night." One 
of his songs had a peculiar element that com- 
municated a fearful homesickness for Italy — 
to one who has never even been there. Just 
the same inexplicable sublety that "The Wear- 
ing of the Green" has, — producing a desire 
in me to shed every drop of un-Irish blood I 
have for Ireland's cause, though I know noth- 
ing of the right of her wrongs. 

20 



:i HE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

We find the same lack of appreciation that 
befell the Italian, in the total absence of under- 
standing about here of Art. They cannot real- 
ize the agony of trying to express the glorious 
ideal shadowed in the birth of the first con- 
ception — the hell of an evening that closes a 
day of failure, the heaven of even a faint 
approach to success. 

Here lies one of the great points of a garden. 
In New York there was no redress after a 
day of defeat; here when a painting "goes 
bad," we fly to the out-of-doors where we 
never remain hopeless very long, or meet an 
absolute Waterloo. 

Bentley has a dear habit of going about 
with his pockets full of seed, generally nas- 
turtiums, which he surreptitiously drops into 
any unexpected nook, and later on provides us 
both with surprises, for he forgets their loca- 
tion himself. 

We both have a great tenderness for nas- 
turtiums — they played such a star part in our 
love. It was by a mere chance of taking an 
overflow of nasturtiums from my garden to 
the studio next to his, that we met. 

The friend to whom I carried them was 
out of town, but the door being open I pro- 
ceeded to fill his vases anyway, and Bentley 

21 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

hearing me, walked in. Until then he had 
been only a name to me, while I, alas! had 
not even enough fame to be known to him 
at all. Yet in that first ten minutes of joint 
arrangement of nasturtiums, and their appro- 
priation by him for his studio, we both real- 
ized the paramount hour of fate (though of 
course neither of us "let on" for a long time 
afterward). Is it any wonder three-fourths 
of our flowers are nasturtiums? 

Yet I always call the nasturtiums "Bent- 
ley's." They seem to have become his along 
with me. It's wonderful how the different 
flowers adopt one. Though the poppies blow 
in my domain, they are always referred to as 
Bentley's; the holly-hocks too are his, but he 
is going to lend me two for sentinels to guard 
my stone path. 

It is already "Kitty's rose garden," and 
though the iris seem to live in Bentley's bed, 
they are called mine. 



22 




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r®ini(^^^ 



r»il . 



Our first plowing is being done, and I 
plowed three rows (corrected by Bentley into 
furrows), and won a compliment from the 
Van Elken. The ground now looks like one 
vast chocolate cake in the making. 

Mr. Schweinehunden is having the happiest 
time of his long life, with Ferrara as slave. 
After all these years of being underling to a 
superior, he is now a boss himself. Bentley 
says he must feel like an old century plant 
that has finally blossomed. The hot-bed is 
finished and is truly beautiful. It is packed 
solid on the outside with pine needles and 
earth banked over them to keep out the frost. 

Bentley improvised a little hot-bed out of 
the turtle-box, and used an old glass sash to 
lay over it. We filched some of the manure 
Mr. Schweinehunden had planned for the 



23 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

back hillock when he wasn't looking, and we 
really felt more proud of this make-believe 
hot-bed than our perfect made-to-order big 
one. 

This morning, to show his contempt, Mr. 
Schweinehunden yanked the frame ofif to make 
way for the plow-horses and carelessly put it 
up against a pine, where the wind abetted him 
and blew it over, breaking it irretrievably. 

Bentley had an equinoctial storm, shook his 
fist down into Mr. Schweinehunden's coun- 
tenance, and filled the air with several strata 
of oaths. 



24 




If I were asked to describe optimism, I 
should say, a robin singing merrily in an April 
snow storm. 

When we were awakened this morning by 
a strange tapping on the window panes, I 
jumped up in perfect indignation, to find it 
sleeting all over my garden. But as it has 
turned into a dazzling snow while retaining 
a genial warmth of atmosphere, I have been 
almost lured into good nature, and irresistibly 
into admiration. 

It is also a sample of how our renovated 
grounds will look next winter. In the swale 
now cleared be^^ween the mass of large pines 
and the back hillock lies the first unbroken 
expanse of snow. 

The pines droop earthward with their 
heavy freight, forming vast plumes of white. 

25 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

Even the last unburnt piles of brushwood are 
glorified, each twig a separate, accentuated 
beauty. All I can see of my yesterday front 
garden are the spears of iris piercing the 
blanket of white. 

The window-habit if once cultivated be- 
comes incurable. I am sure I age my legs 
more just standing at different windows 
staring out on my possessions than I do in 
laboring in them. 

Eighteen of my infantile roses are studying 
to be real roses in Bentley's small warm frame 
(once the turtle-box). 

Yesterday we planted the big hot-bed. I 
almost forgot Bentley's celery which is also 
being persuaded under glass. I think I am 
a little predjudiced against that celery, for 
it has postponed our pool and water garden a 
year. Mr. Schweinehunden discovered that 
the marsh, where the pool was to be, was 
planned by Providence for celery-raising, and 
has converted Bentley. After all I needed 
to postpone something, for we have enough 
promised wonder and already accomplished 
improvements to unsettle the firmest mind 
with joy. So the deferred pool will give us 
something to dream over all next winter. 

The marsh had never been cleared, but was 

26 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

the undisputed realm of the dankest swamp 
weeds, ferns, sumach, snakes, and frogs. The 
last year's growth having dried out, we took 
advantage of Wednesday's stillness to burn 
it, first judiciously clearing away some space 
from the pines on two sides. It was a perfect 
success and a fine imitation of what a prairie 
fire must look like. The incineration dis- 
closed the fact that the marsh must have been 
the town dumping-ground for discarded tin 
cans. It took Mr. Schweinehunden a whole 
day to collect and cart them somewhere over 
into the next county. 

Mr. Schweinehunden took Wednesday off 
to repair and start his own hot-bed, and 
threatened to spend several other days in spad- 
ing his own garden, but the sight of Bentley 
and me getting the whole marsh cleared by 
fire in one afternoon had a most salutary 
effect, for he had prophesied it to mean a 
week's work. He was over here by half past 
six the next morning declaring to me after 
breakfast : "I zee yesterday if I didn't get back 
to wurk you'd have dis whole blace finished 
in anudder day." 

On Saturday the great box from the seed- 
man arrived, and lunch had to be postponed 
indefinitely, until it was opened and gloated 

27 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

over. Bentley brought Mr. Schweinehunden 
in, and I made him sit in a chair in the kitchen 
while I displayed our treasures and forced 
him to listen while I intoned the labels of at 
least a hundred flower packages. 

When he saw our two hundred asparagus 
roots, the bag of immense Noroton potatoes, 
the seventeen rhubarb, the half hundred pack- 
ages of vegetable seed, to say nothing of the 
flowers, he said we would need fifteen acres 
to plant them all. 

The past week I have exchanged my water- 
colors for house paint, and made some very 
impressionistic effects on a small out-house 
and the kitchen sink. I now know why artists 
are not house painters — it is too difficult. I 
also bobbed my head against the painted wall, 
and saw how I shall look twenty years from 
now, with whitened locks. 

Yesterday I spent papering the aforesaid 
out-house, and I also found out why acade- 
micians are not paper hangers. 



28 



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Q «^.^XpriI. 



Yesterday was a day of penance. For two 
weeks I have only used the house for eating 
and sleeping, and to be condemned to indoors 
all day was almost unbearable. 

When one's life is so vivid with spring 
awakening and each day a wondrous drama of 
coming-true dreams^ it is impossible to find 
the winter satisfaction in books. The best 
efiforts of an author to interest one are futile; 
no novel can seem anything but pallid unreal- 
ity in contrast to the living miracles out of 
doors. The only touch of truth in yesterday 
was our trip in the snow out to the warm frame 
to put eight freshly arrived rose-children to 
school. 

I am so glad we postponed re-modelling 
the house until next year, for it is only in 
winter I am wwcivilized enough to enjoy a 
good habitation. 

It just occurred to me the other night that 



29 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

we are the only people I know who never fret 
about the things we have not. We are always 
referring to something with the inevitable 
commentary : "Didn't we get a lot of good out 
of that!" until I sometimes feel conscience 
stricken and fear we work every object of our 
lives threadbare, extracting an over-portion 
of joy. Bentley is indeed the true philoso- 
pher; he has even wrung personal gain from 
this ill-timed snow. 

We have many private love anniversaries, 
all of which indicate cause for a "Party." 
Of course I am the entire list of guests, but 
the parties are nevertheless always great func- 
tions, and the cellar is kept in readiness for 
these frequent celebrations. Sparkling Mo- 
selle or Burgundy are used to drink the 
toasts, and if the weather is cool, grapefruit is 
sure to be included in the menu. Bentley 
seized the winter by its hind leg, during what 
he thought the last winter storm, and made a 
"corner" in snow^ banking the store under the 
pine thicket where he kept the secret from the 
sun for weeks. But as it had all finally melted 
Bentley now revels in the fact that a special 
dispensation from the God of Lovers will fill 
the cooler again tonight. 

Last Wednesday the Waddingtons moved 

30 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

into the long deserted house across the way. 
We looked at this old place so covetously 
when we were house-hunting two years ago. 
Its hoary garden, the long, uneven stone walk, 
the latticed well, and quaint little bird hotel, 
all fascinated us. 

It is unfortunate we have only two bodies 
when we want to live in so many places. Now 
there's the old stone house on the Walkill. A 
few months after our union we came nest- 
hunting in this region, and here was a wonder- 
ful coincidence. Naturally our temperments 
had always been tugging countryward, and 
through those years of city imprisonment, 
though we were yet unknown to each other, 
we were trending toward the same goal. 

I was inoculated with country fever by 
Mowbray's nature books, and formed a habit 
of sending continually for real estate prospec- 
tuses of country places; each spring meant a 
search for the "blue rose country." Bentley 
had the same habit, and in one of his pam- 
phlets he found a little place of seven acres 
on a river, with a stone house over two hun- 
dred years old. 

It became his ideal to possess it, and those 
seven acres formed the stage setting of all his 
make-believe plans. The pamphlet got lost 

31 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

in the multitude of studio traps, and even the 
location of the place became vague as the years 
passed, only the mental picture of the house 
and the river remained indelible. 

When we came to a real estate office on our 
first honey-moon, on looking through the book 
of places to be had, Bentley almost fainted 
with joy on discovering in it the very place of 
his years of yearning. It was on the Walkill 
River. We drove to inspect it, of course, and 
were wild with joy over its delights but un- 
fortunately like so many castles in the air, it 
proved inaccessible to us. 

It was nine miles from town, and weather 
untrustworthy, and above all it was only for 
sale and the price was nine hundred dollars, 
while our combined wealth at that time was 
only forty small dollars. So it had to be fore- 
gone and the dream tucked away to sleep a 
little longer. 

Then we rented this house which came 
within requirements both as to location and 
pocket-book, and proceeded to make it live 
up to our standard. When our combined 
Lares and Penates arrived after their many 
vicissitudes, we received them on the lawn — 
I with my first and only tear. 

Bentley also gulped and whispered: 

32 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

'^Doesn't it look like the salvage from Noah's 
ark?" 

The very fact that our household goods had 
been so mutually battered constituted their 
best point of harmony. They immediately 
fraternized as though they had descended 
from the same ancestor, and the interior of 
the house took on a tone of time. 

Well, when one is so happy for two years 
as we have been, I suppose they can't help 
waxing prosperous. We have not only bought 
our little rented home, but paid vulgar cash 
for it, and more recently have done the same, 
in getting possession of all the wilderness 
adjoining. 

Of course, we always planned to re-visit the 
shrine of our little Walkill near-home, but 
somehow it never came about until this past 
February. We chose a perfect Sunday after- 
noon when the sleighing was delicious, to 
drive the nine miles. 

One passes through many various phases 
of country in reaching the Walkill, and as 
Bentley and I both lose our geographical foot- 
ing very easily through the senses, we found 
ourselves at. times transplanted to Germany 
or England, and even penetrated a Russian 
forest. 

33 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

Nearing the old house we passed the great 
falls which were then muttering menacingly 
deep under the ice and snow, only thundering 
in watery cataract in the very centre. The lit- 
tle house was even more entrancing under its 
snow covering, than when last seen decked 
about with myriad lilac blooms. It seemed 
the very embodiment of peaceful retreat. One 
instantly thought of the possible blaze in its 
huge fireplace lighting up the gigantic rafters 
which are big enough to support a sky-scraper, 
and sighed to remember a commonplace fur- 
nace at home. 

"What a refuge for beset lovers!" ex- 
claimed Bentley, and we felt the tragedy of 
no longer being sorely beset. 

"Let's buy it just for fun," I thoughtlessly 
replied, and we silently looked at each other 
with the pathos of now being able to buy "for 
fun," that which in our former extremity we 
could not attain by any circumstance. 

It was deserted — having the air of faith- 
fully awaiting its rightful owners. The river 
which winds with many a coquettish curve 
within twenty feet of the door sill, pleaded 
with promise of summer fishing. We were 
torn with desire for it all the way home, and 
welcomed the great snow storm that over- 

34 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

took us, blinding us each from the other. 

Though we pretended to have shelved the 
absurdity of purchase, not referring to the 
subject for hours, that night I lay sleepless, 
turning over in my mind any scheme by which 
it might be made practical to own it, if only 
as a fishing lodge, or bower, to ofifer our 
friends for summer rustication. 

But we really have no friends foolish 
enough to feel about it as we do, unless it is 
the Poet, and he has his shanty in the Catskills. 

I even thought we might go to some alms- 
house and adopt an uncle, offering the Walkill 
place to him to live in, if he would only treat 
us kindly and let us visit him often. Finally 
suspecting that Bentley's quietness was not all 
innocent sleep, I tentatively whispered: 

"Bentley?" 

^'Yes." 

**We could take that oil stove we used in 
the old studio, up to the Walkill place for 
cooking on." 

"Oh, pshaw!" he replied disdainfully, "I 
took that stove up there an hour ago." 



35 




(Tjt.h^^pj-rr:) 



I've found a new cure for insomnia. Get 
out of bed, deliberately dress, even to arrang- 
ing the hair, then calmly undress again, go to 
bed for the second time, and peacefully fall 
asleep. 

The past few nights have been ones of rare 
excitement. We got out all our old garden 
and country magazines and read every article 
bearing directly or obliquely on our garden. 
Strange to say we have formerly only valued 
these magazines for their illustrations and art 
suggestions, but during the past nights we 
have unearthed mines of value in the reading 
matter. Sometimes we both found such fas- 
cinating suggestions, we feverishly read aloud 
to each other dissimilar articles simultan- 
eously. 

Last night about half past twelve I noticed 
Bentley was restless so I inquired what he was 
doing. 

36 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

"Mentally building a concrete greenhouse. 
What are you doing?" To which I shame- 
facedly had to reply: 

"Nothing at all." 

"You lazy thing!" he denounced. 

This midnight gardening in brain, books, 
and catalogues will have to stop. We rob 
ourselves of energy that should be saved for 
the real garden next day. 

Yesterday was my first chance to return to 
outdoor labor. Mr. Schweinehunden and I 
started to conquer the north end of the wild- 
erness, west of the marsh. 

Our land is surely the realm of surprise. 
We thought we knew all the beauties we were 
purchasing, but we find we had only a casual 
idea of them. There were actually bits of our 
territory we had never set foot on, so success- 
fully had impenetrable grape vines, briars, 
and under-tangle barred out trespassing. 

The space we were conquering yesterday 
was a complete revelation. It has been the king- 
dom of colossal briars of a tough vine vari- 
ety I've never before seen. They grew from 
three to twenty feet in length, weaving them- 
selves through pine and sumach in a solid net- 
work. It was fiendish work exterminating 
them, but we were richly compensated, for it 

37 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

revealed the most charming natural blulif over- 
looking the future pool, to which we can 
descend by a series of stone steps. 

Beginning at the top of this bank is a per- 
fect amphitheatre of a garden, almost secreted 
from everything, yet apparently getting an 
abundance of sunlight. It is bordered by the 
larger pine thicket on the south, smaller pines 
and poplars on the east, four giant pines that 
tower starward on the north, and white birch 
and hemlock on the west. We cleared out 
everything in the centre except the exquisite 
young poplars with their blue-green trunks, 
that suggest the clean cut legs of youth. 

Today another joyous surprise awaited these 
two Jack Homers, who pull out a plum every 
time they put in their thumbs. The wind- 
break referred to at the north end of the 
planned rose garden, grows thickly with 
young hemlock, pines and white birches to 
the bottom of the great rocky ravine. Grape 
vines woven solid by countless years of un- 
witnessed growth had made transit northward 
from wind-break impossible. 

By a little cautious pruning I broke through 
and there before me in dank hollow and bank 
lay a treasure store of wild columbine. In 
our "Nature's Sanctuary" near the house, last 

38 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

fall we planted dozens of these elfish flowers, 
but here unknown to us was a natural bed of 
five times the number we formerly possessed. 

It makes me feel like saving some part of 
the wilderness for next year's exploration; it 
would be a real tragedy to forestall all future 
surprise by ferretting out every joy the first 
season. 

To Bentley belongs the laurels — he dis- 
covered the first crocus on the lawn today. 
T pray it is a herald of the real spring. 

The hepatica and arbutus bloomed in our 
garden in last week's sunlight. 

The arbutus is very hard to naturalize, but 
each fall we make a bed of it, and it blossoms 
delightfully the following spring, succumb- 
ing, however, later on to the summer heat 
blasts. We hope to eventually select some spot 
in the wilderness where we may deceive it 
into believing itself back in the woods. 

The hepatica, on the contrary, is most amen- 
able to culture, and blooms in our garden 
before it does in the fields. Surely it is the 
loveliest symbol of spring there is to be 
obtained. 



39 



I have always felt I could not play the 
Grieg "Springtime" with perfect understand- 
ing, but today after years of puzzling the real 
meaning was revealed — today was its embodi- 
ment. 

I now know the middle part is the anach- 
ronism of an April snow-storm. Henselt's 
Spring Song was undoubtedly composed after 
an extremely severe winter. It's prelude is a 
prayer of surprised gratitude that they sur- 
vived the winter at all. 

I always find myself playing the hymn-like 
beginning in the most unnaturally solemn 
manner, indeed I never warm up to the feel- 
ing of spring until I'm well into the second 
part, when my left hand takes charge of the 
March winds, that got lost and strayed over 
the fences of April. The butterflies do not 
arrive until the third page from the end. Even 
the zepher-like finale always leaves me with 
misgivings about late frosts. Both Grieg and 
Henselt were outdone in strangeness by the 
spring song that took place on our back hillock 
today. 

40 



Uli^ 




the grieg 
'spring time' 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

Mr. Schweinehunden with eyes glued to 
the ground persistently grubbing out roots, 
behind him a mountain of brush sulkily smok- 
ing volcano-like, a distance suggesting the 
dreaminess of a Francis Murphy painting, a 
foreground of very green and hopeful sweet- 
williams, and over all fell the foolish snow. 

But my garden behaved superbly; it refused 
to take the mistake of the weather seriously, 
simply absorbing the snow greedily as though 
it were a feast. 

The pines, which I am sure are vain jades, 
never can resist an opportunity for beautifying 
themselves; they retained every particle of 
snow, and tossed their heads with a vanity that 
betrayed their sex to be feminine. 

It only occurred to me a few days ago (in 
contrast to pines) that I, apparently, am going 
to be the only thing in my garden not appro- 
priately decked for spring. I find I either 
ignore clothes utterly, or take them too 
seriously. 

The garden is such a splendid excuse for 
wearing out Bentley's cast-offs. His gloves 
and old coats are always my legacy, and I con- 
fess I yearn terribly toward his trousers. 

My old ball gowns hang dolefully on the 
walls of the waste-paper-basket-room oflf the 

41 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

studio — mere commentaries on past frivolities. 
I felt so sorry for them I hung them out on 
the lawn yesterday and let them dance all day 
in the breeze. 

Dressmakers sap one's individuality so 
much, I forego them entirely; taking advan- 
tage of having been blessed with even propor- 
tions I rejoice in buying all my dresses ready- 
made. When garbed in my simple lawns I 
pretend to myself I dress just as the European 
royalties do, only I'm sure I look much 
happier. 

The only time I am gorgeously clad is at 
breakfast, before I interview my garden. Then 
a Japanese kimono with a wistaria arbor over 
my shoulders, Fujiyama rearing majestically 
up my back, and tea-houses scattered along 
the banks of my knees, seems to atone for my 
begrimed condition all the rest of the day. 

But to get back to the soil; Monday we set 
out the two hundred asparagus roots, and in- 
furiated Mr. Schweinehunden by reading 
aloud directions from a book. Trenches 
eighteen inches deep and twenty-one feet long 
were dug, into these was put well rotted man- 
ure and a little coal ashes for drainage. The 
octopus-like roots were placed six inches deep 
and a foot apart on all sides. To start an 

42 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

asparagus bed seems such a grip on the 
permanent. 

The former owner of this house brought 
his wife and daughter to see the transforma- 
tion we had made. They were frankly home- 
sick, and evidently amazed to think they had 
lived here blindly for years and never grasped 
one opportunity for improvement. 

I took the women through the wilderness, 
filling them with wonder, for they had never 
been through it before, yet they lived next 
door to it for years. Mr. Sams spoke last year 
of our beautiful wilderness as an ''eye-sore" 
and "a disgrace to the town"; now he joins 
the chorus of admiration, and we hear regrets 
that it was not purchased for a town park. 



43 




The first dandelion ushered in May. Bent- 
ley and I both adore these vagabonds, en- 
couraging them by giving all the space 
they desire on our lawn. This brings down 
on our heads gratuitous advice from all our 
acquaintances, who declare we never shall 
have a lawn as long as we persist in such fool- 
ishness. With the tact bred of a garden we 
listen politely, and persist in our evil 
admiration. 

The sloping front bank presents a daily edi- 
tion of the nightly firmament with its constel- 
lations of dandelions. They bloom riotously 
during the spring, retiring entirely in mid- 
'summer, leaving the lawn to its grassy plati- 
tudes, uninjured, but surely regretful of its 
vanished gold. 

With the same imprudent love, we never 
destroy a wild daisy, queen's lace or wild 



44 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

aster, and are repaid by unexpected bits of 
informal beauty in the most well-regulated 
beds. 

The hepatica made all April lovely. Our 
artificial bed bloomed weeks ahead of the 
natural bank of them in the wilderness, which 
is only now in its full glory. 

As soon as the hepatica ceases, the wild 
columbine naturalized beside it, takes up the 
legend of spring where its little blue neighbor 
left off. 

The intervening time since I last wrote has 
seen miracles accomplished. The rose garden 
was laid out during April-like showers to 
which I have become impervious. On a fly- 
ing trip to New York I found even a prosaic 
department store had been seized with spring 
dementia, and was almost giving flowers away 
in its enthusiasm. 

We seized on its generosity and secured 
two dozen and four more roses, three-year- 
olds at that, for the insignificant price of 
$1.25 per dozen. Other portions of the gar- 
den were enhanced by Japanese iris and lilies, 
hardy azaleas, two rhododendrons and a mag- 
nolia tree. 

About the rhododendron there blows a sen- 
timent. When I first knew Bentley there 

45 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

lived in his studio a beautiful laurel, given 
by some feminine admirer who probably in- 
tended the leaves for his brow. As much as 
I seemed to thrive in the dear old studio, the 
rhododendron, strangely enough, pined for 
the open. 

After watching its growing illness we de- 
cided it must, in kindness, be invited to live 
in my garden out of the city tumult. But we 
procrastinated until I, myself, lay very ill, and 
in sore persecution (due to some people not 
understanding and loving my Bentley as they 
should). I was afterward told of the secret 
visit one night by Bentley, when he smuggled 
the laurel into the soil of my lonely garden. 

Queer to relate the rhododendron and I 
merely changed places, for while it probably 
goes on being a spindling old spinster in my 
deserted garden, it was found that I pined so 
forlornly, I was transplanted to the studio, 
where I might bloom again in the Garden of 
Love. 

The rhododendron seemed to be the only 
thing we ever regretted, and we both felt this 
garden would never be quite perfect until we 
replaced it. Now that we have two, a great 
peace has fallen over us. 

The rose garden was spaded by the lusty 

46. 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

Bentley eighteen inches deep. Into each indi- 
vidual rose hole a portion of well rotted 
manure, rich wood-loam and charcoal was 
worked. In all I have seventy roses, ranging 
in age from one year old to three. 

On the edge of the marsh on each side of 
the path leading to the mysteries of the pine 
thicket, we have made iris beds. This moist 
soil was found to be also ideal for forget-me- 
nots and lilies-of-the-valley. Higher on the 
bank are masses of golden glow. 

Among the achievements of the past week 
is a moon-garden. It is where we filled in a 
great rock-hollow, and is to have moon- 
flowers all along the back, trained to festoon 
the tall cedars that encircle it toward the west. 
In front of them will be a mass of nicotiana 
afKnis, and four-o'clocks, bordered by annual 
purple evening primroses, and the perennial 
yellow variety. Yesterday saw many seeds 
carefully tucked away in the warm earth. 
Bentley spaded diligently all day, and pre- 
pared a vast space for more poppies on the 
edge of the back lawn. We were so fagged 
by twilight it needed all the chanting of our 
bird chorus, and the diversion of reading 
aloud to keep our spirits above our bodies. 

But a telephone from New York of con- 

47 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

gratulations from a friend on the success of 
Bentley's and my paintings in the exhibition, 
brought us an unlooked-for flutter of joy. 

We have been so engrossed in the garden, 
we quite forgot having sent our paintings, and 
had not even thought to have the mail for- 
warded to learn their fate. It made us feel 
as though we had been a bit untrue to our 
art, and this will undoubtedly cause Bentley 
to forsake the hoe for the brush today. 

It seems strange that our paintings should 
be such cosmopolitans, jaunting from one 
place to another, while we live a life of almost 
monastic solitude. It has often been months 
IVe not put my foot ofif our own soil,, yet 
gone to bed footsore and radiant each night. 

I choose to mingle so little with others, be- 
ing so fearfully sensitive to the physical near- 
ness of the uncongenial, I really fear many of 
my ancestors must have been hermits. Per- 
haps I'm a descendant of Saint Simeon him- 
self, though I could never have been content 
with the pillar unless a rose vined about it. 



48 






c^ 



This has been such a topsy-turvy spring, 
things are not blooming in their proper niches 
at all. 

We are not to have any peaches ; the loss of 
their blossom beauty saddens us as much as 
that of the fruit. The cherry trees have how^- 
ever lent the land the semblance of Japan, 
while the apple blossoms challenge my paint 
brush every hour. The lilacs are intoxicating 
both nose and eye. 

Although I am not to have my birthday un- 
til July, Bentley has seized Time by the fet- 
lock, and presented me two bay trees, that 
stand to the height of seven feet, on either side 
of the front steps. They are covered with de- 
mure flowers, suggesting orange blossoms. 
The revolutionary effect the trees have had on 
our appearance is remarkable; from a very 



49 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

commonplace expression, the house has 
assumed quite a Kate Greenaway air. 

My last birthday gift from Bentley was the 
oleander tree, that resides at the end of the 
porch in summer. 

So ingrossed have we been with the labor in 
our own domain we have quite neglected the 
woods until last Sunday. We make it a rule 
never to take a walk without secreting a trowel 
in our pockets, or we are sure to rue the omis- 
sion, there are so many candidates in the forest 
for transplantation in our garden. Sunday 
gave the richest haul we've ever had. 

I've often wondered if laurels ever have a 
babyhood for I've never seen any that did not 
look as if they had been born grown-up. On a 
very steep, rocky hillside, we happened upon 
the nursery of all mountain laurel I'm sure. 
There were thousands upon thousands of the 
tiniest proportions, evidently drawing their 
first Spring's breath. 

We had returned to this spot because we re- 
membered finding the only wild azalea we 
had seen in all our rambles, here, yet we had 
not noticed any kalmia last year at all. This 
year we not only found the infant laurels, but 
seven wild azaleas, some of them large, pros- 
perous bushes. We came home laden like 

50 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

pack-horses, and made Anna postpone dinner 
indefinitely until they were all planted in the 
gloaming. 

I wonder how many gardeners can make 
this boast. 1 have never lost a plant by trans- 
planting. This record I attribute entirely to 
my method. I dig a rather deep hole, into 
which the water is poured, placing the roots 
in it, then gradually putting the earth around 
press firmly when half covered; the last 
fourth of the hole is filled in with perfectly 
dry soilj to insure there being no damp sur- 
face for the sun to bake. I often transplant 
things in full flower, and they never seem to 
know they have been interrupted. It is sel- 
dom ever necessary to water them again after 
planting in this way. 

Yesterday a fearful and un-heard-of hub- 
bub sounded through our peaceful neighbor- 
hood, and a frenzied rap of our door knocker 
brought us flying downstairs, to be told : "The 
cows are ruining your garden." Two masto- 
dons could have created no greater panic — 
and this in the country where cows are sup- 
posed by right to roam. 

Seized by bovine wanderlust, these two ani- 
mals had broken away from some distant pas- 
ture, and meandered through all the preced- 

'511 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

ing neighbors' premises, where terrified fe- 
males pounced upon them with brooms driv- 
ing them by force upon our land. They had 
wended their way through the hyacinth beds, 
plowed up a newly planted bit of lawn with 
their hoofs, and at the moment of their dis- 
covery by us, were enjoying a perfect debauch 
in the tub of soapy water I keep out back for 
my plants. 

Bentley, looking like a crusader with his 
long birch staflf, charged them gallantly, rout- 
ing the invaders completely. After they had 
been sent adrift on the turbulent town road, 
our silent maid Anna soliloquized: "I think 
they were my father's cows." 



52 



)^ — ^ ^AV^Jv/ 



The first whip-poor-will. 



53 




^^^^6 



2 



The stars of the garden are the copper aza- 
lea and the purple rhododendron. Side by 
side, they each scream at the top of their voice. 
Instead of drowning each other out, they only 
serve by contrast to accentuate each the super- 
lative beauty of their rival. Thank goodness 
these two bushes seem immune from frost and 
all other grievances, possibly it is because 
they prudently form their buds the previous 
autumn and become inured to anything by the 
winter severities. 

When the thermometer begins to get in the 
dumps, and steadily descends, Bentley arms 
himself toward night with hundreds of straw- 
berry and peach baskets, putting night-caps 
on all the tenderest plants, even to corn and 
potatoes. 

54 




une 



The prettiest thing in the world has hap- 
pened to us. Two dear little birds became 
Bentley's accomplices, and added the touch of 
the ideal to my birthday trees, by making their 
nest in one^ and laying me two heavenly blue 
eggs. 

When I returned yesterday after an un- 
willing absence from home of a few hours, I 
noticed Bentley looked congested with news, 
and it was not long before he whispered this 
wonderful secret to me. Of course a whisper 
is the only appropriate means of communicat- 
ing such a delicate confidence. Although 
Bentley and I are generally alone, there are 
many exquisite things to exchange that we 
could never commonplacely say out loud. 

While weeding in one of my private beds 
yesterday the first hunmming-bird paid me a 
call. Such marvels of centrifugal beauty as 
they are! I'll wager if I asked any great 
writer quickly, "What bird flies backward at 
times?" he couldn't tell me. 

55 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

I had been so won by the witchery of the 
wild columbines, I found the conventional 
beauty of the cultivated ones rather tame until 
they were glorified by the humming-bird's 
approval. The nasturtiums are prime favorites 
of his, but they have only one cornucopia of 
honey to ofifer, while the columbines have 
many flagons of nectar to each flower. 

I kept so still he did not know it was an 
ordinary mortal nestled among the flowers, 
and after drinking deeply of the columbines 
I think he must have been intoxicated for he 
flew against my face as if to sample me. 

Bentley ejaculated, "The wicked robber! he 
wants to steal the sweetness from your lips." 
Now even the Irish could not pay a blarnier 
compliment than that. 



56 




We have a most original kind of kitchen 
gardening; we fill strawberry baskets with up- 
turned sod, and plant stubborn seed like ver- 
bena and Japanese morning-glories in them, 
leaving them in the genial warmth under the 
stove until they come up, when they are placed 
in the sun. This is also a splendid method of 
hurrying up cucumbers, melons, nasturtiums, 
and of conquering the difficult moon-flower. 

We also plant corn and lima beans in boxes 
of damp sand. When sprouted the seed are 
sown out-doors. Having passed the sprouting 
stage safely, they seem immune from the rot 
that claims so many seed in the chilly spring 
weather. 

Most domestics would find it very provok- 
ing to have the kitchen filled with strawberry 
baskets and sod, but Bentley is such a diplo- 
mat with women, he completely seduces Anna 
with such transparent exclamations as — 
"Anna, how soon are you going to give us 
melons for breakfast?" or, "I tell you, Anna 
beats us all gardening, just look at the size of 
her moon flowers." 



57 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

When sufficiently developed the sods are 
lifted from the baskets and cut in sections with 
a sharp knife, leaving a plant to each section 
and the sod is planted w^ithout disturbing the 
root. 

I have made a complete chart of my rose 
garden, with each rose in its corresponding 
place, name and kind, (hardy, tea, hybrid- 
tea, noisette, Bourbon) written out, so that in 
case any of the labels are lost this summer, I 
may just look on the chart in the autumn and 
know which roses will require winter pro- 
tection. 

We have literally carved a boulevard 
through the upper end of the pine thicket, 
winding to the top of the ravine, where it ends 
in. the abrupt fashion I adore in a road over 
the crest of a hill. 



S8 




Saturday being the great anniversary of 
Bentley's birth, I sent a telegram of reiterated 
thanks to his mother for horning him so 
thoughtfully for me, and presented him 
among trifles, with a half interest in my rose 
garden, and the privilege of spanking Va- 
grant when he goes mole-hunting in his asters. 
Then while he was out in the garden I wrote 
him a love-letter giving him many things I 
won't tell of here. 

He had one birthday present he didn't 
appreciate a bit — poison ivy. Hundreds of 
these pests grew near where we have hung the 
hammock in the large pine grove, so if we 
wanted any comfort this summer they had to 
be eradicated. Arming ourselves to the 
teeth with Christian Science, we handled 
them with kid gloves, and yanked out roots for 
over an hour. The Christian Science worked 



59 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

up as far as my wrists, and the poison worked 
the rest of my body. As we couldn't get rid 
of the poison ivy we dispensed with Christian 
Science, and are trying separately and collec- 
tively every remedy any kindly disposed per- 
son will suggest. 



60 




The first tragedy of the season has befallen 
me, — the tiny pair of bay-tree birdlings have 
deserted their nest. And all because of a pry- 
ing girl. The little tree stands as a monument 
to loss, with useless and fallen orange-blos- 
soms. 

A certain pair of robins have, however, 
tried their best to console me with their ever- 
increasing friendship. Mr. Robin boasts two 
very large white spots on his tail, while his 
wife's one peculiarity is a waddling walk. It 
is amazing what great walkers robins are; I 
verily believe they stroll about almost as much 
as they fly. 

This pair have done an unheard-of thing, 
apparently appropriating the nest a pair of 
robins started this spring in one of the cedars 
back of the moon garden, and deserted be- 
cause of not knowing Bentiey and me suffi- 
ciently, it being so early in the season. 

We lay in the hammock almost under this 
nest, and the robins seemed to want to tell us 

6i 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

they now realized we could be trusted with a 
secret, so they proceeded their rehabilitation 
of the nest, flitting right over our heads. I 
think this pair probably eloped, and were so 
absorbed in their love-making they neglected 
home-making until Maria exclaimed: "My 
goodness, Henry, what were we thinking of? 
— here I am going to lay an egg day after to- 
morrow and no nest prepared!" Henry hav- 
ing heard the gossip in early spring of those 
monsters Kitty and Bentley^ who scared his 
cousin and wife from their nest, bethought 
himself of this refuge in emergency. 

So with great strategy he lured Maria in 
the vicinity of the deserted home, and pre- 
tended great surprise when she chirped: 

"Why, Henry dear, if here isn't the dearest 
nest already begun, and so clean I know it has 
never been used; would it make the birds talk 
too much if we took possession and finished 
it?" 

Henry, I fear, being a man, could not 
resist a chance for self-aggrandizement, so he 
ruffled out his feathers and said: 

"Maria, this is a little surprise for you; 
when I first saw you in apple-blossom time 
I lost my heart immediately, and made up 
my mind to win you before the season was 

62 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

over. To occupy my thoughts, (which all 
trended nestward) , and to also give you a 
proof, should I win you, of my long prepara- 
tion for your comfort, I began building this 
home. Realizing your fastidious taste, how- 
ever, I did not complete it, not knowing 
whether you preferred Kitty's hair comb- 
ings to horse strands for a lining. If it pleases 
your fancy, you may now give your direc- 
tions and we will have it all ready for the 
little egg in a day." 

(I'm sure if I tell the Naturalist this tale 
he will never believe it.) 

Maria worked diligently all Saturday fin- 
ishing the nest, her little heart probably 
throbbing with pride over her lover's thought- 
fulness. I'm sure she and Henry discussed us, 
and cussed Vagrant who lay in the hammock 
with uSj his interest in the nest furnishing hav- 
ing several times to be checked by an admon- 
ishing slap. 

Yesterday the couple hovered about us all 
day, and in the morning, while Bentley and I 
sat on the grass by our bed of a thousand as- 
ters, they walked to and 'fro about us getting 
many worms from this newly planted plot. 

Finally Henry seemed to exclaim, "Oh, 
Bentley, for goodness sake, spade up a bit be- 

63 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

tween your French artichokes, so Maria may 
make a fine meal." 

The obliging Bentley spaded, and what do 
you suppose that sly Henry did? He said, 
''Maria, let's hurry down to the potato patch; 
I found a grand worm there yesterday." Poor 
trusting Maria waddled off after him, and he 
deliberately lost her among the barren pota- 
toes, and sneakingly flying straight for the 
spaded-up spot simply gorged himself! 



64 





^^i^ oCH ^ e . 



The birds found out about the ripening 
strawberries before we did. Bentley said this 
morning, "They probably regard them as part 
of their salary for their orchestral work," and 
added, "I'm perfectly willing to share with 
them, but I do hope they won't take a fancy to 
my new potatoes." 

(Bentley threatens a vegetable party of 
miniature potatoes and green peas some night 
soon.) 

"Don't you think we might have a scare- 
crow?" I suggested. 

"What's the use?" queried my sometimes 
disdainful lord. "The birds get more inti- 
mate with us every day, and if they saw your 
or my old garments realistically stuffed, 
they'd simply regard it as an invitation to a 
picnic and flock to our supposed sides." 

"Well, that's so," I had to agree. "Vagrant 

6s 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

is the only member of the household they still 
stand in awe of. We might get some old fur 
and rig up a fierce looking imitation of him." 

Bentley greatly applauded the idea of a 
dog-scare-crow, and has taken it under his 
august consideration. 

Our next-door neighbor — the best in the 
world — is very nervous and afraid of storms, 
so we are naturally torn between our fondness 
for her and our love of the garden, during 
this stubborn drought. Mrs. Merriweather is 
our rain-bird, for at the first thunder-grumble 
she seeks refuge under our roof. We divert 
her mind from the perils without, wearing 
the reassuring expression of lightning-rods. 

Bentley says he heard me secretly praying, 
*'Oh Lord, please send a great rain on my 
poppies and Bentley's onions, and make it to 
thunder and lightning so terribly as to bring 
Mrs. Merriweather flying." 

If prayers are wishes, then I fear I am 
guilty. 



66 





^^ur\e. -^ 



It has been left for me to discover how the 
end of the world is to come, and at the present 
rate I fear that hideous event is not far ofif. 
I'm convinced we are to be vanquished by in- 
sects. If the pests increase at the rate they 
have since even last summer, it will soon be 
impossible to raise anything either to eat or 
look at. 

The Dominie, who has had such experience 
saving souls and plants, recommended whale 
oil soap for our roses, and in fact as a general 
exterminator of insect enemies. We discreetly 
made it much less strong than the directions 
suggested, yet the applications wrought grie- 
vous results. 

The insects evidently thought we were serv- 
ing them ice-cream and cake, and lapped it 

67 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

up with perfect ecstasy, positively fattening 
on it, while it destroyed almost all the foliage. 

At present the only things on the place im- 
mune from insects are the hitching and lamp 
posts. 

I do not remember, when a child, hearing 
my mother wail over these devastations, and 
last night on looking over her book on flowers 
I find she dismisses the subject in a few words. 
In regard to rose pests she says: "patronize 
toads for their destruction." 

It makes my heart ache to read her pages so 
a-bloom with eternal spring, and realize the 
lastingness of the inanimate over the human, 
for gardening is long over for Mama. But 
her share in my garden is very large; she may 
still be my preceptor through her legacy of 
words, and perhaps after all the reason my 
flowers thrive so well is because of their guar- 
dian spirit. 



68 




une 



Mrs. Merriweather had lunch with us to- 
day, which means my prayerful wishes were 
gratified, by a bountiful rain, accompanied by 
premature Fourth of July pyrotechnics. 

Bentley seized upon the psychologic hour 
to set out hundreds of celery plants in the 
marsh. Irrespective of downpour I flitted 
about my garden. 

So quickly did the plants respond to the 
rain, I 'found the Canterbury bells, which had 
not even determined on their color this morn- 
ing, open and dancing in petticoats of purple, 
blue and white. 

My roses had made strides with seven 
league boots, a white Mama Cochet and a La 
France proclaiming themselves the winners in 
the race for priority. There is not a rose in 
the garden but is going to bloom, even the 

69 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

littlest one-year-old babies are determined to 
reward me with babbling blossoms. 

I found several robins out taking a bath, 
and a cute little toad gathering up water in 
its hands to sip. Day before yesterday I heard 
the first catching sob of the dove. It carried 
me back home again, for in our pines behind 
the Southern home, lived many hundreds of 
these mournful birds; their lamentations and 
the sighing of the pines always sent a wave of 
sadness over me even in my happiest hours. 

"Dear Goose," intervenes the oracle, "they 
are not lamenting, they are only love-making." 

"I don't believe it," I retort unconvinced. 
"It doesn't sound a bit like the kind you 
make." 

On Monday wOiile at lunch the fanfare of 
a bugle sent us flying to the door, to see a pic- 
turesque trio of two vagabonds and a great 
bear lumbering down the road. 

Involuntarily I exclaimed, ''Uh-huh! it's 
happened at last, Bentley! Our old favorite 
Horatio's come to life and called to pay his 
respects." 

He was a gigantic bear from the Pyrenees, 
his masters two debonair Frenchmen from 
Toulouse. With open blouses showing bear- 
like breasts, rakish red sashes, hats worn at 

70 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

the tilt of Frangois Villon, they were the 
ideal strollers. One fellow burst into a rol- 
licking air, which smacked of the vine and 
trilled of love, the great bear rose on his hind 
feet and danced with irresponsible abandon 
and perfect rhythm. So infectious was the 
air, you felt sure it was the melody Pan piped 
of old. 

After drilling and doing many other undig- 
nified human tricks, the bear came on oui] 
lawn and sank back into the old stateliness of 
the natural. I sat down beside him, and 
scratched his ears as I do Vag's. He seemed 
to know my sympathy for he put up his paw 
as much as to say, "Shake, my friend," and 
gently clasped his great nails about my willing 
hand. 

We brought out ice-tea for the perspiring 
and loquacious Frenchmen, but they refused 
all offers of refreshment for the poor weary 
bear, Bentley says because they have to keep 
him hungry to make him perform. So I had 
to be content with offering him ice, which he 
licked as gently from my hand as a dog would. 
Bentley got little enjoyment out of the affair; 
the degradation of this old monarch of the 
wilds was too much of a tragedy to him. 



71 




Since my last chronicle a birthday and a 
wedding have occurred in our family. 

On the eleventh I took formal possession of 
the bay trees; on the tv^elfth Marcus Aurelius, 
our turtle, took unto himself a new wife. Five 
months seem a very decent length of widower- 
hood for a turtle^ and after all Sappho Plu- 
tonius Aurelius was not a wife to grieve over 
unlimitedly, though far be it from me to abuse 
the dead who can't talk back^ still she was a 
baggage — a turtleous Xantippe. The late 
Sappho, while roaming about the house last 
summer, with feminine curiosity decided to 
investigate the open cellar door, falling with 
some dozen bumps to the bottom. She was a 
changed woman from that day forth, showing 
a meekness of spirit that suggested it might be 
a good course of training to try on many bad 
tempered wives. 

Marcus was very much in love with Sappho, 
but I sometimes believe she died a self-centred 

72 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

old maid. When I am more kindly disposed 
to her memory I think she was perhaps being 
true to some husband from whose bosom she 
was snatched when we took her into captivity 
to be a companion for Marcus. 

It was a terrible problem at first to know 
how to sustain them, as never having been on 
intimate terms with turtles before I didn't 
know whether they lived on spiders or pate de 
foxes gras. But Marcus seems to enjoy the 
same fare we have. I'm sure if he ever loses 
me he will starve for lack of his accustomed 
lamb, porterhouse steak and fish. 

By last autumn Marcus and Sappho had be- 
come so over-civilized they refused to burrow 
or attend to their hibernation at all; never 
having tried it myself, though I have wished 
to, I was terribly put to it to imagine the 
proper etiquette of the affair. However, I 
guessed at it and provided them a box in the 
studio with an old flannel petticoat to hide un- 
der, and they went to sleep in November. 

Not having the natural moisture they would 
have had in the ground, they dried out aw- 
fully. So once a month I woke them up and 
put them in lukewarm water to soak, after- 
ward lubricating them with cold cream. 
Then I forced some meat down their throats to 

73 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

sustain them during their next month's slum- 
bers. 

This probably unnatural method succeeded 
beautifully with Marcus, who rose from his 
bed in April as sprightly a turtle as one could 
desire, but alas! when I took Mrs. Aurelius 
out for her February bath she never aroused 
from her January dreams. 

What an inexplicable thing is the majesty 
of death. While that poor misguided spouse 
of Marcus Aurelius lay in state on an up- 
turned shoe-box-bier, with birthday candles at 
her head and feet, and a bit of incense to help 
sweeten her not too perfect soul, we were quite 
cast down for the several days of her lying-in- 
state. 

Such is the presence of death in the great 
or lowly, I noticed Bentley walked about the 
studio with hushed footsteps, and we uncon- 
sciously lowered our voices in the manifest 
presence of the Great Conqueror. 

The present wife seems to be a sweet Chris- 
tian character and most amenable to human 
civilization. I taught her to eat from a spoon 
the second day, and now each evening after 
dinner it is quite a diverting sight to see me 
with the happy pair on my lap feeding one, 
then the other with meat and potatoes or rice. 

74 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

I have a new friend and valuable assistant 
gardener — a gentle little maiden toad. I no- 
ticed one day, while weeding with my claw- 
fork, a little toad kept hopping about me, 
even getting in the way of my hand at times. 

I then paid stricter attention and found that 
curiosity is the besetting quality of hoppy- 
toads. That toad was dying to see what I was 
doing, and every time I dug it couldn't resist 
hopping over to investigate. The minute it 
would find me looking at it too closely it 
would turn its back quickly, like a negro when 
he eats; thinking itself quite hidden by this 
clever military tactic, it would then bulge its 
eye far out at the side and look around the 
corner of its head at me. I noticed the mark- 
ings on its back quite carefully, so I might 
identify it in future ; fortunately the spots were 
irregular enough for distinction. 

I worked over a large bed on to another, 
Mistress Toad following me from spot to spot. 
Then I went into the house and got a piece of 
bread for hospitality's sake, which I offered 
amidst much coquetting on her part. 

Curiosity rising uppermost she took it in 
her strangely human hands and nibbled it. 
Alas for her manners, she violently spat it 
forth, and finding she had not evacuated it all, 

75 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

took her fingers and more daintily removed 
the rest of the disapproved bread from the 
corners of her mouth. 

Since then I often find she has followed me 
to quite distant parts of the wilderness, per- 
mitting me great liberties in stroking her back 
and getting close for study. Once I gave her 
a large earth-worm which was so much too 
much for her, she often lost her balance in try- 
ing to consume it, taking the most absurd 
somersaults backward. 

Again I noticed the wonderful use they 
have of their hands; she held the worm just 
as a person might their more palatable dain- 
ties. Ants crawl over her continually, suggest- 
ing that perhaps she is infested with some 
varmints — frog-fleas for instance, which the 
ants go hunting for. Or possibly when in a 
hurry to get somewhere the ants jump on her 
back and travel by Toad-Express. 



76 




KTUcSHT OW 



'^^i^^Hl^^ 



Not content with having gone all through 
the garden ourselves and afterward taking 
Mrs. Merriweather, I feel we must share it 
with you too. 

The moon is quite round tonight and hangs 
high for our lantern. First we will go down 
the front walk where the phalanx of holly- 
hocks stand at attention ; we pass all the vari- 
ous colors from the pale pinks, that still hold 
their color in the moon glow, to those which 
from their blackness lose themselves in the 
kindred night, until at the end of the row we 
reach the great stalks of bridal double white. 

Looking across at my bed from here the 
bank of Shasta daisies are another Milky 
Way, while back of them are the thousand de- 
flowered poppy seed-pods which nod in the 

77 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

shimmering light as if drowsy with their own 
narcotic burden. 

Now we cross the unbroken lawn, passing 
up the stone path through my beds past the 
lilac, and still garded by sentinel hollyhocks 
we approach the moon garden, drinking in 
with each breath its exquisite fragrance. 

The myriad flowers of the nicotiana-affinis 
float before us — starry constellations, their 
foliage lost in the gloaming shadows. Behind 
them the many cedars stand. Nature's excla- 
mation marks after the excessive beauty before 
them. 

After involuntarily lingering here intoxi- 
cated by the perfume, we reluctantly go 
through the path in the adjacent pines to find 
ourselves in the open where dahlias and more 
nicotiana compensate. Behind these is the 
powdered velvet foliage of the great pine 
thicket. 

Now take my hand, for we are going to 
plunge through the foliage into that appar- 
ently impenetrable blackness beyond; it may 
be a cave — it may be a bottomless pit. . . 

But once safely through the piney portals 
we find magic beyond belief. What a mo- 
ment before seemed all mystery, becomes a 
moon-pierced forest, the shadows of a hun- 

78 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

dred slender tree trunks trailing long on the 
ground — the pine needled ground that is so 
like the shining, tawny back of a sleek animal. 

Here we will sit and dream on the bench 
that considerately invites us, looking back over 
the uneven horizon line broken by traceries 
of grape and bitter-sweet against the western 
sky. Far out on the north the moon illumines 
the clearing of the amphitheatre where we can 
still see the Shirley poppies that have lingered 
beyond the day. 

Below, through the trees, the shining marsh 
gives the delusion that it is already the pool 
it is to be in the future. 

Passing by the poppies we make a sudden 
turn through poplars and birch and climb the 
winding path that leads to light and the top 
of the ravine. 

Here the calmness of the pine grove leaves 
us; we are possessed by the excitement of a 
mountain landscape, for below us the great 
rocks fall like giant steps, partially hidden by 
wild grapes in greatest confusion, and pines 
tower over our heads, casting the blackest of 
shadows. One could easily believe any wild 
beast might lurk in this tempestuous bit of na- 
ture. 

Looking southwest we see the slopes of the 

79 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

near mountains while even the distant Cats- 
kills can be felt and mistily seen as in a dream. 
Below us — so far below us — lies the rose gar- 
den, its beautiful curves and formal lines ac- 
centuated by the chaos in which we stand. 
The moon seems to linger lovingly on it, rest- 
ing especially on its centre pedestal, which 
now tacitly transforms itself into a lunar dial. 

When we begin the descent we all hold 
hands, for we go down a precipitous drop of 
twenty feet before we reach the slope leading 
to the rose garden. 

Here is indeed witchery; the borders of 
phlox are now a solid mass of flowers, and 
almost every rose tree in the garden has 
decked herself in blossoms. 

About the dial climb nasturtiums, at the far 
west end shine the sweet-peas. Looking back 
at the great pines and stately cedars with the 
moon hanging between^ it takes but little 
imagination to fancy oneself transported to an 
old Italian garden. To the west the prim 
lines of vegetable rows are glorified by the 
night from mere necessities to beautiful ac- 
cessories, while ever and again a tall sun- 
flower that has smuggled itself in, stands tri- 
umphantly smiling. 

Bentley, who has not spoken for some time, 

80 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

says in a hushed voice: "It's about as near 
Paradise as we'll probably ever get— or 
want." 



8i 




The first morning-glory and green corn to- 
day. 

Does it seem sentimental to have a senti- 
ment about green corn? Then I fear I must 
plead guilty for the memories of the first sum- 
mer spent with Bentley are so inseparably 
connected with it. We lived very near heaven 
in every sense of the word, in the altitudes of 
the old downtown studio, and we had such a 
prodigious amount of love and genius and so 
little money to interfere with either. 

When I gaze on the superfluous amount of 
dishes we now own, I think back rather wist- 

82 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

fully on the days of the beginning of our 
world, when our possessions in that line con- 
sisted of a shaving mug, two tumblers, a knife, 
a fork, two spoons and five dishes. 

This prodigality of dishes was entirely ow- 
ing to the loose moral standards of the studio 
before my day, when nervous females sent pies 
on plates to poets and artists, and neither plate 
nor pie was ever returned. 

Our table was then spread with the day be- 
fore news, and Japanese napkins served our 
purpose, being afterward made into wads 
and hurled down on the heads of unoffending 
passers-by. Our breakfasts were the ideal 
ones of much cream and a few berries, some 
rolls and a plenty of good coffee. Dear fru- 
gal meals! — dearer mental feasts! 

Many times they were shared with all their 
scarcity of implements with editors, poets and 
general greatnesses. If the menu was brief 
that was no reason why the breakfasts should 
not last until almost noon, for they seemed 
somehow to incite the mind to great feats, and 
the longer we lingered the more brilliant we 
each believed ourselves to be. 

The lunches — (here comes, the cause of the 
corn sentiment) — all summer long Bentley 
fed me with tender ears of corn prepared in 

83 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

the chafing dish at noon^ and our love so 
thrived on this diet I recommend it to the 
consideration of all unsuccessful lovers. 

At night for some reason Bentley thought 
we should be more festive, so he took me out 
to dine sumptuously at Golferdernio's, Chi- 
chini's, the Grififou or any other place w^here 
one can get well upholstered with spaghetti 
on an artistic income. When filled with 
waste-paper-basket salads and "near" wine, I 
always went to bed wholesomely yearning for 
the green fields of next day's simple corn. 

Bentley has such a way of cooking corn! 
He leaves their little green chemise on when 
he boils them, retaining all their delicate, 
modest flavor. 



84 




When weeding a few days ago in the amphi- 
theatre, I heard Bentley making sounds of 
distress in the distance, showing he had lost 
me. On making the countersign he stole up 
looking very important. 

*'Kitty, you've always longed for an Italian 
garden, haven't you?" 

"Yes, dear," I gurgled. 

"Well, I'm giving it to you now," saying 
which he led me to the top of the ravine. I 
gazed down on what appeared to be a swarm 
of locusts. 

Eight Italians were going through the gar- 
den with every implement we own at a rate 

85 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

which made me dizzy, Italianizing every 
inch. 

It seems Ferrara's wife noticed we were 
getting the worse in our battle with weeds, so 
she flitted (or flirted) over to Bentley, saying: 
"Too much erb (weed) here — my cousin — 
she come over — work for you." 

"My-cousin-she" turned out to be eight 
lusty fellow countrymen who vanquished the 
"erbs" in a few short hours only wanting one 
dollar and fifty cents for their crusade, but 
Bentley threw in a "Larkin prize" of twenty- 
five onions. 

Never have I seen such charming labor, it 
was more like a Saturnalia. The Italians 
never talk — they exclaim. When Americans 
work, if they say anything, they must cease 
their labor and lean on the hoe until finished, 
while the Italians chatter every second and 
never miss a stroke for all their laughter. 

Behind each ear was tucked a flower. These 
decorations added so much to my happiness, I 
sat down and hugged my knees, rocking with 
blissful chucklings. I have only one good 
ear, the hearing of the other having departed 
for parts unknown some years ago. This 
merely ornamental ear the Italians have 
taught me how to use. I now keep it decked 

86 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

with the flower its neighbor nose can most en- 
joy. 

This deaf ear is a thing to envy, for it is the 
source of my most serene hours. When the 
children play too riotously around me I mere- 
ly stick one finger in the good ear, and they 
move before me as phantoms in a soundless 
sphere. 

At night after our last garden plans have 
been discussed I say: "Now I'm going to 
close," as a flower might to a bee, and by ly- 
ing on the noisy ear, I am quickly in the pas- 
sage of silence that leads to the door of 
dreams. 



87 




0°^^L7^*1^- 




As we took the last sip of dinner coffee yes- 
terday, the strange vision of two black-robed 
nuns appeared in the holly-hock walk. Anna, 
good Catholic^ bustled to the door to welcome 
them and find out what we could do for them. 

Pilgrims from a rather distant convent, 
passing along our road to the depot, they saw 
our wealth of flowers, so stopped in to ask 
floral alms for their orphanage. For, as it de- 
veloped, these good sisters were the mothers 
of over two hundred appropriately fatherless 
children. 

Fortunately I had just picked during the 
afternoon great bunches of sweet-peas, corn- 
flowers and carnations, so I was as prepared to 
give as though I had felt a sacred augury of 
their advent. As we passed to the out of 
doors my garden quickly took on a demure 

88 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

air, the flowers making many a pretty genu- 
flection to the passing holy forms. The black- 
robed figures were so picturesque among my 
gay blossoms, I quite wished I might wear the 
same garb, if I could only escape its signifi- 
cance. 

While I picked nasturtiums to add to my 
contribution, Bentley lured the sisters ofif to 
the white altar of the moon-garden and the 
more distant pine sanctuary. I hoped they 
would not dwell too much on the apparent 
bliss of living in such a Paradise, for it would 
surely unsettle the most nun-like mind and for- 
ever unfit them for a manless^ loveless exist- 
ence. 



89 




^s3^ 



Last night we reluctantly noticed the les- 
sening of our birds' vesper songs. They still 
sing sweetly in the early morning but their 
joy seems spent by night. The robins have 
finished their nesting and are doubtless worn 
out with the harrowing ordeal of bringing 
up their young in the way they should fly. I 
know one or two of the Mistress Robins are so 
disgusted with matrimony they will probably 
take the veil before next season. 

We have had such a large colony of great 
brown thrushes this season — such stylish birds 
as they are, always wearing their Sunday best. 
Bentley loves the catbirds. "They are such 
linguists," he says, "speaking with equal fa- 
cility French, Italian and English." 

90 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

The birds we are completely entranced by 
now are some tiny grey and brown creatures, 
whom, in lieu of knowledge, we call the 
"lover-birds." You know what a hard-work- 
ing drudge Mrs. Robin is, and Mrs. Catbird 
has but little time to frivol, while Mrs. 
Thrush is eternally unnerved by her nest-hold 
cares. Mrs. Lover-bird is a delicious contrast. 
She lives a life of luxury, compared to which 
the far-famed Miss Curly-locks' Mother 
Goose existence, was mere slavedom. 

This spoiled darling of a birdling is told by 
her doting mate to wait for him upon a cer- 
tain bough while he goes foraging for food. 
She patiently sits there, only stirring to give 
a coquettish prune to her feathers once in a 
while, or perks her head to one side to admire 
her small toes. When her husband returns 
after his search for dainties he generally 
perches on the bough above her, bending over 
to feed her as he might his young. 

After the meal comes the really exquisite 
part of the drama — for then they always kiss 
and kiss and kiss! Sometimes they come on 
the lawn to hunt the crumbs we throw out; 
she hops about in pretty aimlessness, chirping 
sweet nothings, while he diligently searches 
until he gets a crumb. Summoning her to him 

91 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

by a sound between that of a tree frog and a 
cricket, she is fed from his bill, then one holds 
their breath to see the kisses which are sure to 
ensue. 



92 




-/VugTxji a't 



There are of course certain laws of etiquette 
to be observed in a garden. One of the strict- 
est in ours consists in always treating with the 
greatest courtesy any self-invited flower. We 
always call these "gift flowers," and never look 
them critically in the petals. 

The uninitiated may find strange lapses in 
the color schemes of our beds to criticise, but 
how could any gardener of true feeling expel 
a poppy soldier of fortune, or a free lance 
phlox who sought their hospitality for a brief 
season? 

The great exception to this fine law has been 
the petunia. The petunia we have both re- 
garded as the tramp of flowers, maintaining 
that it should have every insect in the garden 
sicked upon it. 

Even this exception exists no longer. Bent- 
ley and I have formally apologized to the pe- 

93 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

tunias for our treatment of their race, and are 
making amends by singing their praise in all 
meekness. For there was a shady, dry, pov- 
erty stricken bank under pine and sumach that 
skirted the large pine grove nearest the house 
— a most conspicuous spot — nothing would 
thrive here. 

Even the accommodating phlox subulata 
refused to exist; the generally hardy verbena 
died of acute dyspepsia. In final desperation 
I gathered up all the vagrant petunias which 
were unwelcome in various beds, and planted 
them with what looked like premeditated 
murder. Lo and behold, they perked up their 
heads, and were so rejoiced over having a 
community of their own, they forthwith made 
their settlement a positive bower of beauty. 

So after all it proves there is nothing en- 
tirely despicable — if we can only find the 
proper place for it. 

What a wise gardener is he who plants a 
wealth of white flowers, for then his garden 
will be even more beautiful by night than by 
day. Our grounds seem almost barbaric in 
the sun with the intense reds, blues and 
orange, but by moon everything becomes spir- 
itualized, showing only the spots of virginal 
white. 

94 




w^O «^-^A.u^uCrt . 



A neighbor whom we inveigled into gar- 
dening against nature and his own desires, has 
proven quite hopeless with one exception — 
he calls it his "specialty" — cantaloupes. 

This optimistic pessimist dug his first pota- 
toes last week, and after taking away all the 
children of the mother vine, he replanted her 
for further offspring. He has a beautiful ex- 
cuse for the weed-swamped condition of his 
premises, a theory that if the weeds are undis- 
turbed the insects will devour them and ignore 
the vegetables. 

To return to his specialty though, this 
melon patch is visited by him as often as a 
Mohammedan looks Mecca-ward, and it has 
undergone every agony of over-cultivation. Of 
course it would be quite commonplace to loot 
a neighbor's melon patch, only the original 
Bentley could have the inspiration of aug- 
menting one. 

For this fell purpose we purchased the most 
measly melon we could find. Bentley arose 

95 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

before day and sneaked over to the sacred 
patch, tenderly placing the monstrosity under 
a vine not eight inches long. Our neighbor 
while a very great man is not encumbered by 
a sense of humor. I draw a veil over what 
happened when the melon was discovered. 
Bentley has one acquaintance less in this 
world. 



96 




(^ *h ^^^Vl^XXS 



For weeks have my ears been strained for 
the music of thunder in heartless disregard of 
the feelings of Mrs. Merriweather. So ut- 
terlyparched has my poor garden become un- 
der the relentless rays of the sun, I have felt 
the kindest thing to do was not to notice it. 

The bed of a thousand asters has lifted three 
thousand or more appealing faces above with- 
ered foliage. The rose garden with its quan- 
tity of phlox stubbornly blooming has been 
unbearably brilliant, presenting an aspect of 
hot color beside which the sands of Sahara 
would have seemed meek coolness. 

In a garden where the absence of wind-mill 

97 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

makes the rule of no watering imperative, a 
long extended drought is indeed a calamity. 

There are some flowers — Kaiser blumen, 
California poppies, phlox drummondii, an- 
nual coreopsis and nicotiana, which ignore all 
vicissitudes of weather. These keep the living 
rooms so a-bloom the house is quite oblivious 
of the sad conditions that exist outside. 

Mrs. John Laing and Captain Christy still 
persist in sending delegates from the rose gar- 
den to the dining table. In fixing the vases 
I always like to have one filled with an old- 
fashioned nosegay of mixed flowers, another 
holding a bouquet of sweet odors. The most 
delectable combination we have found is that 
of pink sweet-peas with a great mass of blue 
cornflowers in their centre. 

Now indeed are we rewarded for our spe- 
cial dispensation to the ''Queen Anne's Lace." 
Sprinkled throughout the garden we see their 
fairy parasols lifted against the sun. Later 
on in the season, in their seed phase, they mas- 
querade as summer ghosts. In the winter 
their denuded skeleton hands catch the snow, 
presenting a delusion of a garden filled with 
phantom flowers. 



98 




f -S^^ ^A. U 5*. U wT t" 



Our lives are filled with the unprophesied, 
and as a greater sage than I has said on a bill- 
board, "You Never Can Tell" — especially in 
these dog days and cat nights of August. 

Judging from the limited ideals of a 
woman, I should have thought Marcus Aure- 
lius would have satisfied every yearning of a 
feminine turtle's heart, but it seems not. Yes- 
terday afternoon his perfidious wife scaled the 
wire walls of their castle, while Marcus was 
taking a siesta, and departed for foreign lands. 

Poor Marcus! he doesn't seem to have much 
success with his wives. Of course Sappho 
showed great consideration of his happiness 
by dying when she did, and death is always so 
respectable, but to be deserted by a wife is 
indeed humiliating. 

Mrs. Aurelius II. had not even stayed long 
enough for me to decide whether her name was 
to be Claudia or Faustina, thereby she cheated 
herself out of a christening party. But if she 

99 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

could thus pusillanimously leave her husband, 
it either proves she was not worthy of Marcus, 
or else he was not the man for her, so I fold 
my mental ha/ids and say complacently to 
Marcus, "It is probably for the best." 

Mr. Aurelius is naturally a bit despondent, 
at least what I can see of him, for he keeps 
his head buried in the corner, exhibiting only 
a dejected rear. Claudia or Faustina had her 
faults, and many eccentricities, among which 
might be numbered her habit of laying her 
eggs in their bath-tub where they incontinently 
melted away. Taking her all in all, I think 
she was a sort of woman's rights turtle and not 
the real affinity of a domestic person like 
Marcus. 

The season for hibernating is approaching, 
so I console Marcus by reminding him he 
won't know or care whether he is a benedict 
or a bachelor when he is asleep. 



lOO 




^^:?<^ «.«« ^^\ig^uAt- 



Yesterday morning we drove over to the 
Naturalist's and returned in the evening bring- 
ing much of the "Birch Bark" soil with us. 

His far-famed celery patch (at present a 
lettuce-field) contains the most extraordinary 
black snufif-like earth, which is so beautiful I 
wanted to get down and wallow in it. The 
green of the lettuce on the purplish black 
earth fairly sang. 

With rare generosity he encouraged my 
candid covetousness by telling me to fill all the 
discarded bags and boxes in his fireplace with 
soil to take home to my flowers. By frequent 
visits I may be able to eventually relieve him 
of all his earth. It took great will power to 



lOI 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

restrain myself from even taking ofif my stock- 
ings and filling them Santa-Claus like with 
this precious stufif. 

The only thing I can't understand about 
*'Birch-Bark" is the lack of flowers. I men- 
tally sowed all his field with flowers, and 
in imagination saw it a-bloom as never garden 
yet blossomed on this earth. 

Bentley carried many packages of our 
flower seed to proselyte the Naturalist, but he 
remained firm, calmly saying his daughter-in- 
law would be glad to get them. 

Wouldn't it be a dreadful joke to carry 
quantities of seed of persistent flowers like 
phlox drummondii, Shirley poppies and an- 
nual coreopsis, scattering them broadcast 
about "Birch-Bark?" It would take years to 
eradicate them and in the meantime they might 
win a new devotee. 

Both in the mountain-shanty and the home 
on the river, the Naturalist has made his 
bookcases a part of the walls themselves, 
which is a kind idea, for the books then really 
become a part of the house, not the extraneous 
ornaments they generally are. 

I also noticed a nicety of balance he pre- 
serves on his shelves. For example, "The 
Doom of Death" was counteracted by two 

1 02 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

volumes of "My Recollections of a Happy 
Life" beside it. 

I told the Naturalist about my *'lover-birds" 
and he says their real name is social or sociable 
sparrow, which after all isn't half as nice as 
my term for them. He had never witnessed 
their kissing but was not the least skeptical 
when I told him about it. This was a great 
relief, for I was trembling lest I be ordered to 
go and sit on the table beside the volumes of 
Mr. Long. 

This is one of the most fascinating periods 
of our garden for it is the time of our seed 
harvest. It takes the utmost diplomacy on 
my part not to have a seed harvest beginning 
in May. 

When the first blossom unfolds, Bentley 
inevitably says : "Now we won't pick that 
flower — just let it go to seed." I've had to 
give up the habit of allowing him to help me 
cut flowers for the house, for he arrested my 
scissors at every snip and never cut any 
himself. 

It would be an interesting experiment for 
Bentley and the Canadian to conduct a garden 
together. The latter always pinches off each 
bud that appears from spring throughout sum- 
mer to make the next flower larger, until the 

103 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

last effort of autumn has been similarly ar- 
rested, while Bentley would never have more 
than a week of bloom in his greediness for 
seed. 

We make no trip through the garden now 
without carrying small yellow envelopes, 
which return with their sides bulging to enter 
the seed box in the studio. 

There is even a science in gathering seed. 
I have just mastered the best way of getting at 
the Canterbury bells. The long California 
poppy pods nearly scare me to death by the 
way they pop in my face. I now place them 
quickly in a paper bag as I do the phlox drum- 
mondii, and let them go off like caps as much 
as they please. 

The big poppy pods are the most delightful. 
From the little windows around the tops of 
their turrets, spill such a wealth of promised 
color. We have almost a quart of poppy seed, 
enough to cause a floral conflagration in the 
garden next year. 

In gathering candy-tuft it is a good thing 
to leave the chaff in the seed and sow both, 
then they will not come up too thickly. We 
mix corn-meal with our poppy seed for the 
same purpose; one is then saved the agony of 
sacrificial thinning out. 

104 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

By saving our own seed we have discovered 
the cause of the many failures of bought ones. 
Our fresh seed always come up, which would 
seem to indicate the great antiquity of much 
of the seedman's stock. 

Last week when the weather was most 
parching and my garden looking its saddest, 
the greatest florist of these parts came to see 
it. To show the tenderness of comprehending 
experience, he did not find one fault — took the 
drought for granted and only praised my suc- 
cess in spite of such disadvantages. He knew 
every plant in the vegetable kingdom as well 
as those of the flower dynasty, taking the great- 
est delight in our all-embracing variety of 
subjects. 

It seems we are the only people round about 
here who raise sweet potatoes, French arti- 
chokes and okra. I took him up on the back 
hill so he might admire our fine cantaloupes 
and melons, sympathize with our small crop 
of peanuts and rejoice in our corn. 

All through our vegetables are sprinkled 
flowers to put a bit of poetry into their more 
prosaic kindred. Even the tail of an onion 
bed is fringed with brilliant nasturtiums. 

He especially praised my rose garden, de- 
claring I was the only person he knew of, out- 

105 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

side of florists, who was getting roses out of 
their garden at this time. 

When he had seen all the kaleidoscopic 
beauties of my domain, he said: "To go 
through your garden is like reading a won- 
derful novel." Only a gardener can know 
the true definition of pride. 



io6 




PINES BACK 
OF THE HOUSE 




zA.U^'U 



I was awakened in the night by the ex- 
quisite sound of the so-long-deferred rain- 
drops. It seemed ungrateful to go to sleep 
and miss the music of one drop. 

So quickly does nature in mortals and flow- 
ers respond to a little kindness, my chrysan- 
themums which looked hopelessly parched 
yesterday, have perked up their leafy heads 
today in quick forgetfulness of their recently 
threatened extinction. 

''Rain" is surely the gentlest word in our 
language, and the most soothing phase of 
nature. Out of doors a rainy day means get- 
ting a new lease on life to the plants. In doors 
it means the doing of the long postponed, the 
writing of procrastinated letters, mending of 
clothes, straightening out life's tangled ac- 
counts — getting a new start. 

Bentley, alas! is laid low on a bed of suf- 

107 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

fering, so today is divided between bringing 
him be-jewelled flowers and giving him nasty 
medicine. 

I have just picked him a Wright's Datura, 
a newcomer in our garden this season. It is 
really only a glorified jimson weed, but as 
I always loved the weed in the South, I do 
not hold that against it, but give the Datura 
the extra admiration its evolution commands. 

It is like a bush moon flower. Next year 
I shall plant it across from the moon-garden. 

I shall also have the paths leading to the 
moon-garden lined with four-o'clocks, so the 
evening may seem to begin a few hours earlier, 
and the moon have an appropriate escort as it 
steals up to rest in the nicotiana. 

To help make Bentley well I have put on 
his table (to hide his bottles and pellets) a 
great bowl of blue Kaiser blumen with a 
center of the white cornflowers, or sweet sultan 
as some people call them. 

These last — the Marguerite variety, I often 
think the lovliest of all flowers, but frankly 
my opinion is unreliable for I think that so 
often of others, shifting constantly my defini- 
tion of the superlative. 

The patient is also being dosed with many 
asters, — the tight rosette-like purple ones and 

1 08 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

the great shaggy white ones. I have just 
admistered one pink morning-glory on a long 
trailing stem. Placed alone in a Venetian 
vase, it saved me the trouble of writing him 
a poem to tell him what I think about him, 

If I complete my flower treatment with a 
sleeping potion of nicotiana, I'm sure he 
should wake up tomorrow as hale and hearty 
an assistant-gardener as anyone could desire. 

This afternoon I started out with my sister 
on the commendable errand of getting some 
Jersey milk for my patient. But every outing 
in the country is apt to irresistibly turn out 
to be as full of incidents as a "Sentimental 
Journey." 

Our way lay down the serpentine hill road 
that creeps over the brook which today surged 
noisily with its overnight replenishment of 
rain. Here we dawdled beneath the great 
sycamores which I love, for they alone of all 
trees, imitate Bentley's Japanesque manner 
of drawing limbs. 

As we wound up the ever-curving road 
there broke on my never jaded eyes the long 
expanse of lately harvested fields in the great 
plain walled in on the south and west by the 
Dunderburg mountains. These mountains 
seem to saunter leisurely out of the mysterious 

109 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

mists of the far distance like great giants 
weary with long effort. As they plod skyward 
they pause hetween peaks in great dips for 
breath. Working gradually up they make 
the grand effort of the last magnificent eleva- 
tion, which so exhausts their energy, all Jovian 
ambition is abandoned, and relaxing them- 
selves in many small hills they finally tumble 
with weary backs to rest beside the comforting 
little brook. 

With the rippling water singing an ever 
fainter tune we journeyed through the Innis- 
like landscape past a venerable apple orchard 
which only kept its footing on the steep hill- 
side by means of its gripping root toes. Here 
a yokel was gathering the many apples 
which the great drought had caused the trees 
to give premature birth. With the easy 
fraternity of the soil I climbed over (my sister 
under) the old rail fence to beg a pippin and 
have a little atmospheric gossip. 

With my mouth very full I managed to get 
out: "What do you do with all these apples?" 

"I gether them fur my pigs," he replied, 
adding apologetically, "but it don't seem fair 
to give 'em to 'em so green and spotted, so 
I cook 'em in a big boiler and make a kinder 
nice sauce fur their supper." 

no 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

This consideration so delighted me I drew 
him out further by a well-timed admiration 
of his view. 

"Yes, it is nice, aint it? I have to pass here 
every morning 'bout sunrise, and the fog 
always lies in the valley up to these trees — it 
makes me think of the sea, though I aint never 
seen it yet — you'd never know there was any 
land if it wasn't for that steeple what shows 
over on that hill," pointing to a church on the 
heights of the distant town. 

"Gracious!" thought I, "here is indeed a 
poetical bumkin." 

I sampled meantime every variety of pain- 
giving apple in his orchard, reminding my- 
self inwardly of the sad fate of Johnny Jones' 
sister Sue. 

"If you don't mind the wet grass," the youth 
ventured, "there's a tree over in that field 
that's got striped apples on it, what are ripe." 

Finding I still had a clamoring space for 
both apples and his conversation I hoisted the 
sails of my skirts and followed. My sister 
having daintily brought up the rear picked 
up in delight an exquisite apple of faintest 
blush, exclaiming to me : "What wouldn't you 
give for a complexion like that!" 

My yokel with charming lack of self-con- 

III 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

sciousness confessed: "Why do you know I 
used to look jest like that — that's why they 
call me 'Apple-blossom!'" 

'^Apple-blossomr' — I might have known it. 

''But," he temporized, "being out in the 
sun so much has cured all that." But it hadn't, 
I decided, as I examined his fine russet tones; 
he had merely grown naturally from the tints 
of the blossom to that of the fruit. 

When my blouse was quite filled to a degree 
that lent me a majestic corpulency I have often 
longed for, and my sister's silk bag (which 
she always carries for just such emergencies 
as this) was bulging, we started to cut across 
fields after many thanks for Lord Pippin's 
generosity, when I found him following. On 
my turning questioningly around, he asked a 
little wistfully: "Didn't you want to see my 
pigs?" 

"Of course we do," I replied in quick 
remorse. 

"I've some little pigs too — they's the cutest 
things you ever did see," he further enticed. 
As I had never seen baby pigs, I hastily fol- 
lowed to find piglets about a foot long and so 
clean and dear I thought some other name 
should be applied to them through infancy. 

He had put a quantity of clean straw at one 

112 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

end of the pen, and the babies had routed 
under, appearing only between the thatch over 
their backs. The mother was eating a hearty 
meal of weeds with small reserve in view of 
the apple sauce promised her. 

"I don't see why people call pigs dirty," 
defensively began Sir Apple-blossom. 

"No?" I encouraged. 

"Why, they are the cleanest animals we 
have on the farm," was the astounding news. 
"Yes, sir," he continued, "they don't like dirt. 
Every day I give 'em fresh straw for their 
house" — pointing to an opening from the pen 
into a building — "and they pile it to suit them- 
selves all in one corner. Those three pigs" — 
pointing to the occupants of an adjacent pen — 
"all cuddle up close together under the straw 
to sleep at night, and every morning they clean 
house, same as a woman. They carry every 
bit of dirty straw out into the pen in their 
snoots; no, they don't like dirt," he reiterated. 

This was a new nature chapter to me, and 
it reminded me of an old sign of rain Bentley 
had mentioned, of the farmer looking for a 
storm when the pigs carry in straw to fix a 
bed for refuge. 

"How about their love of wallowing?" I 
queried. 

fl3 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

"They wallow, that's so, but they always 
clean 'emselves off afterwards." 

It seemed true^ for as I examined them I 
found they were pink and white, quite free 
from mud except around their ankles. With 
a chastened regard for the cleanly pig I bade 
Lord Pippin a reluctant good-bye, liking him 
most genuinely for his fine defense of his 
swine. I hoped it would be a long time be- 
fore he saw any sea but the one of mist in his 
valley, for it would be rather sad to make a 
sailor out of this good farmer. 

As we crossed the railroad tracks the famil- 
iar faces of Ferrara and all eight "my-cousin- 
shes" greeted us from above pick-axe and 
shovel. As my apples refused to peacefully 
beautify my figure in front but insisted upon- 
producing apparent tumors by slipping round 
to my back, I seized the first refractory one 
and tossed it to the distant Ferrara. He 
caught it with the ready Italian love of play. 
When I saw the expectancy on "my-cousin- 
shes" countenances, I hastily dislodged an- 
other deformity and hurled it cousinward, 
continuing the merry pantomime until my 
form had resumed its normal willowy lines, 
when to my horror I found I was two apples 
short of cousins. 

114 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

Visions of the possible Italian translation 
of slight darkened my horizon — possibilities 
of Vagrant's tail being stilettoed flitted before 
me. But with rare tact and much reprimand- 
ing dignity my sister walked sedately over to 
the neglected two, and gravely handed each 
an apple from her bag. 

Happily just then three of the young Fer- 
raras — Tinine, Cyrane and Caesare, came trip- 
ping along in joyous anticipation of the 
greatest pleasure their day holds — the trium- 
phant carrying home of their father's and 
cousins' dinner pails, which fortunately re- 
minded me I was still carrying a pitcher 
as yet unfilled, for a patient, waiting Bentley. 



115 




My sister has returned to the South. I don't 
think our home-made wine caused her to 
shorten her visit — at least I hope not. 

After I had shown her all the views, made 
her look at our mountains as many times and 
from as many different viewpoints as one must 
gaze at St. Peter's in Rome, introduced all 
our rich assortments of "types" to her, taught 
her my favorite solitaire, and allowed her to 
try and save my Bentley's soul, I bethought 
me of the crowning glory of her visit — a sam- 
ple of our home-made wine. 

Leading her by a string of enthusiastic 
adjectives, I drew her into the subterranean 
parts of the house, and from the mysterious 
shadows under the hanging shelf pulled forth 
bottles which the cellar dampness had deco- 



ii6 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

rated with a mold a monastery need not have 
felt ashamed of. Rubbing the dust and mold 
(of only a year's mellowing) from the labels I 
attempted to decide on a bottle worthy of her 
fastidious preference. 

Cleaning up the first label I read: "Ar- 
rested half-way on the road to the vinegar- 
barrel" in Bentley's truthful writing. Some- 
what crestfallen, I said, "I guess that won't 
do, we'll try another," but as "Hell-broth," 
"Witch of Umbaloo Decoction," "Guaran- 
teed to Cure Inebriates," and even a skull and 
crossbones were graphically inscribed on the 
next few I selected, I explained hastily that 
perhaps I had gotten hold of our "sour" wines. 

On diving" under the table I produced a bot- 
tle marked "Love Vibrations." This I de- 
lightedly declared would undoubtedly be 
delicious. I was very proud when I noted 
the snap of approval in her eyes as the ruby 
vintage of the currant wine gurgled into my 
best wine glasses, I meanwhile murmuring 
confidentially: "Our own currants, you know 
— the very first wine Bentley and I ever tried 
to make." 

Simultaneously we sipped. As is often the 
case with wine, one gets their palate into such 
a state of expectation during the pouring, it 

117 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

is nerved to any sort of surprise and it gener- 
ally takes two or three sips for one to find out 
what it really tastes like. 

There was a veneer flavor that I imagined 
probably tasted like vitriol, but when you got 
over the surface shock, there was a strata of 
a rare, potent suggestion of something that 
I'm quite at a loss to describe, never having 
drank anything in the least like it before. 

Like connoisseurs we sipped and meditated, 
my sister Margaret almost whispering: ''A 
rare aroma." 

"Yes, doesn't smell a bit like plain currants, 
does it?" 

"Suggests a little a cordial I once drank 
in Tunis," she reminisced. 

"The sub-flavor I suppose you mean?" 

"Yes — now that you mention it, it has two 
tones." 

"Doesn't it warm one's vitals up greatly?" 
I exclaimed feelingly. 

"Very subtle — but direct," Margaret as- 
sented. 

It was indeed both, the first definition ap- 
plying to its effect on my sister, the latter to 
its results with me. 

I have never encouraged the fad of either 
peritonitis or appendicitis, but I had to con- 

ii8 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

fide to Bentley I feared I had both. I now 
know just how a poor volcano must feel in its 
middle. Margaret retired courteously to her 
own room as she said "Just for a little nap," 
but I saw her secreting several lumps of sugar 
in her silk bag. I fancied she had an under- 
scored expression of unmarried superiority, 
that had always held convictions about "vibra- 
tions" of that variety. 



119 




The inauguration of autumn was the arrival 
yesterday of the first instahnent of bulbs. The 
scanning of catalogues, the perturbation of 
selection and the excitement of ordering un- 
doubtedly constitute some of the chief delights 
of gardening, but the actual arrival of the 
stufif sometimes causes great dismay, for there 
never seems to be land enough to hold one's 
purchases, nor is any part of that land ever 
in readiness. 

The only way to survive the avalanche of 
bulbs yesterday was just to pretend they hadn't 
come — Bentley even rising to the supreme 
heights of fancy by swearing nobly because 
"that nursery always delays things so." The 
place we have selected for our iris garden, is 



1 20 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

the only piece of untamed land along our 
front road skirting the pine thicket. 

Savage weeds have flourished here all sum- 
mer, making an eyesore to all who had not the 
prophetic vision we possess of its exquisite 
iris future. The strip is about sixty-five feet 
long varying in width from eight to ten feet. 
It is low but with a natural slope for drainage, 
partaking somewhat of the queer granulated 
soil quality of the swamp. It merges into the 
marsh where the iris will meet the border bed 
of their relatives who have already become 
sturdy citizens this summer. 

Seventy-five Japanese iris alone should 
make any spot a fairy-land, but when you 
know that one hundred English, several dozen 
German, and five hundred Spanish, are to be 
included in our iris-garden you may under- 
stand why I wish I could hurdle winter and 
land in the lap of spring. 

Mr. Schweinehunden has plodded all day, 
properly translating the soil from savagery 
to civilization, and has meantime gotten out 
enough rocks to build a stone wall, though 
I insisted on many being retained. 

Bentley and Mr. Schweinehunden have 
really had rather strained relations lately, for 
two reasons — for one of which I am to blame. 

121 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

I made an eternal enemy, I fear, of the 
old man by presenting Bentley with a hand- 
cultivator (and waist-reducer). Bentley 
made such a fine horse, speeding through the 
potato field at such a rate Mr. Schweinehun- 
den's old-world soul couldn't stand such radi- 
cal methods. 

"Dey never had zuch vool mazhines in de 
old gundtry; de hoe unt de spade ees goot 
enuf fur me. Now you god dis ding I sink 
you kin do widdout me^ so I go wurk some 
udder blace" — and he did for a time. 

The second grievance is Bentley's celery 
patch of over thirteen hundred plants. Mr. 
Schweinehunden has for years produced most 
of the celery sold in these parts, and for this 
upstart of an artist to have a patch right along 
the road where Mr. Schweinehunden must see 
it every time he passes, has been quinine to his 
soul. When he suggested raising celery in the 
marsh, he did not calculate on our phenome- 
nal success. 

When I think of Bentley having been on 
his knees to that celery all summer when he 
might have saved his devotional attitudes for 
me, I suppose I ought to go over to Mr. 
Schweinehuriden's side. But I fear I am a 
gardener first and a woman second, for I 

122 










BENTLEY HAS BEEN ON HIS KNEES 
TO THAT CELERY ALL SUMMER* 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

placidly glory and peacock about that celery 
as much as Bentley. 

All my flowers together have not been more 
beautiful than the celery patch with its sym- 
metrical rows of green plumed knights, 
flanked at the ends by the galaxy of cabbage 
beauties, whom one expects any moment to 
gather up their crinolines and pirouette about. 

In a sunny space at the south portals of the 
pine wilderness overlooking the azalea ter- 
ritory which lies under the bank, a peony king- 
dom has been founded over which Bentley 
is to be sole ruler. It should rival my rose 
garden in splendor. 

Look over any catalogue of peony prices 
and you will realize why I shall probably 
only be able to afford sufficient raiment this 
winter to barely escape the clutches of An- 
thony Comstock. 

The preparation of the ground for peonies 
must be as far-reaching as for roses. With 
the ground loosened by the wonderful rains of 
the past week, I attempted my first spading 
with the four-pronged fork, actually digging 
such wells for the plants I expected to strike 
oil any second. 

Please observe I don't recommend spading 
to any other woman — it was merely experi- 

123 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

meriting with my muscle and to show off be- 
fore Bentley; generally speaking I advocate 
leaving the spading and voting entirely to 
the men.* 

After finding little or no information in 
our floral magazines about the cultivation of 
peonies, I went to mama's book for assistance. 
She calls them "peonias," which was evidently 
their "befo' de war" name. We filled in the 
wells with the mellow earth of the old cold 
frame and set the crown of the plant three 
inches below the surface. 

Yesterday we made a bed of hardy phlox — 
sixty-two in all, which now makes the entire 
front garden permanent. They are planted 
where one of the poppy beds had been located 
for two years; these we shall plant out back 
next year, giving a larger space to them, and 
a locality where their unbeautiful ragged ap- 
pearance toward the end of the ripening seed 
stage will not mar our front expression. 

My fall house-cleaning in the rose-garden 
is completed; I suppose I have the same self- 
satisfied sensation most housewives have after 
an orgy of cleanliness indoors. The gay little 



* Since writing the above I've become a suffragette, so 
I amend it by saying "leave the spading and swearing to 
the men." 

124 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

phlox drummondii were ripped out and laid 
on two old bed sheets to dry and shed their 
seed. 

After renovating the borders, I filled them 
with their permanent Scotch pinks; these will 
not grow too high to detract from the roses, 
and they possess that wonderful blue-green 
which harmonizes with everything. At the 
upper end of the garden the phlox subulata 
will make a matted border that will sound the 
first spring note. The center bed about the 
sun-dial will be filled with hyacinths and 
later on in the spring with the same flowers it 
held so successfully this summer — nasturtiums, 
phlox and the ageratum border. 

The Jacqueminot, Perle Blanche, and Vis- 
countess Folkstone are filled with blooms, and 
I see many buds forming for autumn's fare- 
well to summer. 



125 







The other day Bentley remarked: "I be- 
lieve that old controversy as to whether Katy 
did or didn't has at last been laid at rest." 

But last night I heard sounds that would 
indicate there is as much difference of opinion 
on the subject as ever. If the old adage is 
true, our garden has still six weeks of respite 
from frost. The scarcity of katy-dids in our 
woods this autumn we attribute to the great 
flock of birds we have entertained this sum- 
mer. 

All our old friends have departed for 
warmer climes except the "lover-birds." They 
are with us in such numbers, I think many of 
the newcomers must be travellers from the 
farther north, merely paying us a call on their 
Southern flight. 

Bentley saw a large woodcock fly out of 
our marsh a few weeks ago, which seems a 
remarkable thing as the Naturalist says he 

126 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

hasn't seen one about here for many years. 

While I worked in the iris-garden two great 
eagles wended their portentous passage over 
me, coming, probably, from some distant eyrie 
in the Catskills. How the sight of an eagle 
blots out the commonplace, and transports 
one's imagination to inaccessible heights, 
where there is only mystery, solitude, large- 
ness. I followed them both with my eyes un- 
til I lost all sense of earth. 

Bentley gazing upward asked: ''Did you 
ever feel the ridiculous inconsequence of 
things?'' 

"Yes," I said, still floating, "when I follow 
an eagle's flight or gaze too long at the stars." 

This is one of the most exhilarating sea- 
sons; all the glorious plans and visions of the 
next year's garden crowd on you so thickly, 
the eyes scarcely see the flowers that still 
patiently bloom. 

"What liar was that," Bentley grumbled, 
"who called these 'the melancholy days?' " 

"A man who did not find his sweetheart in 
September," I replied. "Even I formerly in- 
dulged in conventional sadness at this time of 
the year," I continued, "thinking all sorts of 
false platitudes about the dying year — depart- 
ing flowers, but that was before the greatest of 

127 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

all Septembers when I carried nasturtiums to 
the wrong man and stumbled into the arms 
of the right one." 

Being in the shadows of the pine wilder- 
ness we grabbed each other in the agony of the 
— "suppose it hadn't happened," and the joy 
of— "but it did." 

When I was quite happy again over the 
assurance that all our autumns forever and 
ever should be spent together, Bentley, not 
to take too much glory to himself, went on: 
"Of course, the owning of a garden helps us 
to interpret fall correctly, for the soil is never 
so full of promise as now." 



128 




t> ^' O^ept ember. 



When one has a wise gardener who plants 
in rotation, there is no reason why the vege- 
tables of spring should not continue until 
frost. Our green peas are as delicate and 
prolific now as they were in June, thanks 
to many sowings and trenching. Just as we 
plant the flowering sweet-peas we sow the 
garden-peas in deep trenches and cover grad- 
ually as they grow; this method saved our 
peas through the drought which meant ruin 
to most other gardens. 

The corn we planted the day the bear came 
to see us is now ready — two hundred and fifty 
hills. On account of not tying up our toma- 
toes, but permitting them to sprawl naturally 
on the ground, they too withstood the drought 
which cooked the trained-up tomatoes in the 
surrounding gardens. 

The melon patch has been the most surpris- 
ing success. Bentley needed much gentle per- 

129 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

suasion brought to bear on him to "sacrifice" 
any soil to what he termed "a foolish experi- 
ment." Although the patch is due to my 
persistence and eloquence, that greedy thing 
has never permitted me to pick a single melon 
until I murmured this morning: "Eighteenth 
melon, and I've not been allowed to touch 
one yet!" 

The dictator then escorted me out to them 
through the dew, but kept his eagle eye on 
me to see that I picked only the ones he had 
fore-ordained for his breakfast. Such deli- 
cious melons I've never before tasted. 

They were appropriated by Bentley for a 
certain anniversary which necessitated a very 
grand party a few starry nights ago. 

This is the month when the flower stalks of 
all hardy perennials such as golden glow, 
Shasta daisies, hollyhocks and delphiniums 
should be cut down to the ground so their 
strength may be thrown into their roots and 
the next season's growth. If you did not shear 
the flower stalks of your sweet williams suffi- 
ciently after their spring outburst, do so now 
by all means. 

Many spots that have held early blooming 
annuals may now be cleared and their beds 
made up again. If I were placed in some hide- 

130 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

ous spot where no flowers would bloom, I 
should have a garden laid out of perpetually 
turned up ground and still be happy — 
so much do I love the color and "feel" 
of the earth. Soil is never dirt to me — "dirt" 
is that dreadful thing New England women 
fight indoors all their lives — and the men we 
don't love wear on their collars. 

The moon-garden has been cleared of its 
frazzled nicotiana, leaving the night-duty to 
the four o'clocks and moon-flowers. It is a 
good thing to choose annual beds for your 
bulbs, then they can be made ready early, 
and you wont be found as unprepared as we 
were for the iris. The annuals may be sown 
again in the spring, when the bulbs are finish- 
ing their beauty service. I like to have annual 
borders for my perennial beds for the same 
reason, so that hyacinths, tulips, jonquils or 
crocus may be used in conjunction. 

I almost achieved two great stone gate posts 
yesterday, but Mr. Schweinehunden had 
worked for two days within swearing distance 
of the celery patch, and jealously had worked 
in him like yeast until I feared we might have 
to begin dodging the stones. Bentley softly 
but firmly told him he should go home and 
take a good long rest. 

131 




embers. 



Of all our two and a half acres the most 
unique and valuable part is a bit of land 
thirty by thirty feet lying in the corner next 
to Ferrara's. Perhaps you've never heard of 
a barometer made of soil — well, this precious 
clump of earth was the exact indicator of my 
Bentley's condition. 

When I heard him remark: "I guess I'll 
give that corner patch to Ferrara," I agreed 
out loud, ''That's a good idea;" and said to 
myself, "Bentley has worked too hard today." 
When the morning came with its untarnished 
energy, Bentley burst forth: "That corner 
down there would be bully for celery," I 
agreed aloud, "So it would;" and to myself I 
said, "Bentley is himself again." 

When toward evening we made our last 
rounds through the twilighted garden with 

132 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

toilworn feet, Bentley sighed: "I've more 
than I can take care of. Ferrara might as 
well have that corner patch to raise some 
celery for his family," once more I agreed 
aloud: "He would probably be glad to get 
it;" and said to myself, "Bentley stood too long 
at his easel today." 

And when he woke next morning and gazed 
hungrily out back saying: "Kitty, we should 
buy fifty feet further over the crest of the 
hill," I hugged his back and smiled under his 
shoulder. 

Just before he was taken ill, he marched 
Ferrara-ward with desperate finality, and with 
the setting sun and me as witnesses, he be- 
stowed the corner patch on one of Ferrara's 
"my-cousin-shes." 

"Take it," said he, "nothing could induce 
me to plant another inch — it's yours!" (with a 
grandiloquent gesture) "and I'll give you the 
celery plants to fill it." 

"My-cousin-she" gazed vaguely at Bentley. 
I said nothing aloud, but to myself I said: "I 
fear this is a case for the doctor," and added 
in still smaller inward whisper to myself, 
"And Ferrara's cousin doesn't understand a 
word of English!" 

When Bentley recovered and made his first 

133 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

plunge into the garden after days of land- 
homesickness, he planted that patch himself 
with four hundred celery roots all in one after- 
noon; — and I? — I winked at the sun and said 
nothing. 



134 




Qt /* GreptembeP . 



Yesterday morning we rose at five, which 
fact in itself is indicative of the unusual. If 
anybody chants the good or charm of early 
rising don't believe them. Is it the early- 
rising toiler who leaves his individual stamp 
on the centuries? 

I came to the country with fine notions 
about intimacy with the rising sun and the 
exquisite purity of the newborn day, but a 
few experiments cured me of tampering with 
heredity and lifelong habits of comfortable 
hours. We settled back into our pleasant cus- 
tom of "breakfast about eight," and have never 
broken it since except under stress of catching 
the train for New York which rural-like in- 
sists on starting at seven. 

During that hideous attempt at early ris- 
ing I found I grew contemplative about noon, 
inert at four, vacuous at seven. 

Fortunately for us Bentley's profession is 
one that delights in ignoring hand-made time, 

135 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

so I found in him my true mate — I, who have 
always abominated clocks. The day is long 
or short according to our moods, meals occur 
at no hide-bound hour, but hover comfortably 
about certain periods, always deferentially 
ready to be postponed or hastened as our 
fancy dictates. 

Anna is ideal in this respect, while she is 
methodical to a painful degree in everything 
else. She never expects us to come to a meal 
when summoned, so she strategically calls us 
some time before it is ready, giving us time 
to perversely flit over the garden, or read 
another chapter, or paint a few last strokes. 

But we rose at five yesterday, which, as I 
said, was alarming enough, but it also meant 
the temporary loss of Bentley to the garden 
and me. At the drowsy breakfast Bentley, 
while munching his melon, bemoaned: 

"It seems a positive crime to leave a place 
where there is so much good food." 

If it had been later in the day he would 
have gallantly given other reasons for sad- 
ness at departure. 

"If Gentian's place is prettier than ours I'll 
kill him," he proceeded savagely. 

Inconsistently he went off bulging with 
flower seed packages to add more beauty to 

136 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

the abode of the recently threatened Gentian. 

I fear a garden would be small solace to 
the lonely or sad, though of course under any 
melancholy circumstances it would be prefer- 
able to people. When Bentley is away I find 
I actually hurry through my flowers instead 
of loitering forever, as we do when together. 
I could have slapped the American Beauty 
who tossed her head at me this morning for 
blooming so complacently when there is no 
Bentley to enjoy her. 

I can imagine nothing more desolate than 
travelling through beautiful lands alone, nor 
could anything be more futile than living in 
a lovely garden alone. But I would share 
my garden with few — only a loving few. 

So sensitive is a garden it feels the impress 
of everyone who passes through. I have 
known my garden to be so magical in its 
beauty I felt a beast of selfishness in keeping 
so much lovliness to myself. So in a moment 
of misguided altruism I have invited a femin- 
ine acquaintance within its sacred portals. On 
taking her through, to my horror I would find 
my garden suddenly grown ugly, the woman 
made me see only the many lurking weeds 
(losing all sight of flowers), I realized only 
the mistakes in arrangement (not remember- 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

ing the many successes) — in short, I felt abso- 
lutely apologetic for what only an hour before 
had been to me a symphony of perfection. 

There are two people whose visits to our 
garden have all the blighting effect of prema- 
ture frosts. On the contrary there is the joy- 
ous wife of Ferrara. She trips over through 
the back field — sometimes in her bare feet — 
and literally dances a tarantelle through my 
flowers. Her eyes so bright with reflected 
color, her hands fluttering in ecstasy like wind- 
blown petals, her nostrils quivering with each 
new perfume — then indeed my garden loses 
its false self-consciousness and basks itself in 
her appreciation, laying bare the very secrets 
of its heart. 

We've fought rose-bugs, potato-bugs, cab- 
bage-worms and moles, but I would take my 
chances with all these rather than contend 
with the blight of the professional fault-finder. 
When in early spring you stand in admiring 
abstraction before your iris he passes by with: 

"What are those things?" 

"Iris." 

"Awfully queer, aren't they? — no form or 
distinction. I'd chuck them out if they were 
mine." 

And a few weeks later when some undis- 

138 




THE JOYOUS WIFE 
OF FERRARA" 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

covered ones bloom in his own garden he 
calls over: 

"If you want to see some flowers that really 
have a decorative value, come over and see 
these." 

You go, and find the very iris he had 
damned a short time before. 

Again when absorbed in the planting of 
bulbs, putting each just the same number of 
inches in the ground, so they will all bloom 
at once, he startles you with: 

"By George! I believe they are nothing 
but onions. Your gardening is all guess-work; 
why don't you hire an experienced florist? — 
then you'd know the thing was done 
right." 

You are seated peacefully at the head of 
your rose-garden, congratulating yourself on 
the wisdom of bordering all the beds the first 
year with gay little phlox, and rejoicing over 
the continuous beauty with which you have 
been beguiled while your roses were gaining 
their real foothold, when you are interrupted 
by: 

"Would you border your table cloth with 
fur?" 

"No, I haven't tried it yet," you temporize. 

"Just as appropriate as those motley things 

139 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

in a rose-garden — looks for all the world like 
a patchwork quilt." 

There is no use, nor ever was, of any argu- 
ment on any subject, since any world began, 
so you hold your tongue — though not your 
peace. He persists in going through your 
garden, the flowers have the same fascination 
for him they have for insects, but you can't 
turn your sprayer on him — more's the pity. 
He passes along, eyes strained for flaws, sar- 
casm seething for expression. 

'What is this efifect supposed to be?" 

"Moon-garden," you are forced into de- 
claring. 

''Humph! reminds me of a painting I once 
saw of a girl holding a dog in her lap. The 
title of the picture was ^The Flea,'" 

Next your haphazard sunflowers claim his 
attention. The sunflowers that make a 'festi- 
val of all August and bird-feast of all Sep- 
tember. 

"Those sunflowers look like the dickens 
scattered that way. Why don't you study 
massing?" 

As explanations were never in my line, I 
smile quietly, thinking, after all we really owe 
a debt of gratitude to anyone who gives us the 
opportunity for feeling so immensely superior 

140 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

— and it doesn't change one inch of our gar- 
den-of-surprise. 



141 




BJBOKnr ©If 



m\ ^t, >^eptembe: 



Except for the tree-toads, who have said 
the same thing over and over until no one 
would dispute them, and the distant symphony 
of pots and pans in Anna's domain, I am alone 
with the silence of the studio. 

Yet I should not say alone, for does not the 
devoted Vagrant lie on my skirt tails? In 
looking back over my garden book I wonder 
I've made so little note of Vagrant — for he is 
really the most adored thing on the place. It 
is a great secret, but Vagrant is a woman. She 
is, however, such a perfect gentleman we al- 
ways use the superior sex in speaking and 
thinking of him. 

It is only because Vag can't read that I am 
perfidious enough to let you into the hidden 
recesses of his history. "In the candid dawn 
of his juvenile innocence" he was the surrep- 
titious mother of four puppies, but I discreet- 
ly helped her dispose of them, and he had to 

142 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

be formally introduced to his children when 
she met them on the street thereafter. 

Ever since that youthful accident, Vagrant 
has been as well disciplined an old bachelor 
as ever existed on or off the dog star, and after 
forswearing canine society for six years, she 
has come to regard himself an absolute per- 
son, as much as you or I. 

Anyone can buy or steal a dog, but only to 
the elect is vouchsafed the honor of being 
adopted by one — such was my distinction. We 
met in a rainstorm — Vagrant and I, and knew 
instantly we were affinities. It is hard to rea- 
son from a dog's standpoint, but by doing it 
hind part before, I believe one comes very 
near their view. 

For instance: Vagrant never having met 
chickens in New York, except in their post- 
mortem state, did not recognize them as old 
favorites of his, when they intruded alive 
from neighbor's yards upon my garden. I 
was naturally glad to have them discouraged 
from forming a fondness for the flower beds 
and may have even gently sicked him on them, 
but when he got one down in his enthusiasm, 
and proceeded to hasten it toward the spirit- 
world, I arrested him and delivered a lecture 
on moderation. 

143 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

As soon as i let him go he pounced on it 
again. This time a loving spanking aug- 
mented my words. Again freed he got the 
chicken down — then it was spank, pounce, 
spank, pounce, until it occurred to me to try 
and find his point of view. 

Here it is; each time I chastised him he 
thought he was being punished for not killing 
the chicken, and was trying to say: "Oh 
mama, if you'll only let me have one more 
go at it I'll kill it sure." 

Vagrant often looks at me as much as to 
say: "Well, you come as near my ideal of a 
dog as anything I've ever found." I can truth- 
fully respond: "And you, Vag, come nearer 
my ideal of a human being than most people 
I know." 

He is the police of our premises, making 
his beat many times a day. He is always 
anxious to do the right thing, however queer 
it may seem to him. It was difficult at first for 
him to understand when I said "Keep to the 
path," that "path" sometimes meant stone, 
sometimes brick, other times shale and often 
even soil — just the same soil which when 
called "beds" must be avoided as he would an 
an automobile. 

It was indeed hard to learn, but he was very 

144 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

patient. Starting across the garden he would 
go a little way looking around questioningly; 
if I said "No, little pig, that's the bed," he 
would turn back and literally tiptoe off the 
forbidden spot. 

When he caught a mole in the early spring 
and Bentley called him "A hero!" it was 
naturally incomprehensible to Vag when he 
was severely licked by this same Bentley for 
trying again to be a hero in the aster bed. 
What inconsistent creatures we are from a 
dog's standpoint. 

Vagrant never says much about his ances- 
tors, but from his looks I should say there 
were Cocker spaniels, Dandy-Dinmonts and 
a few scandals up his family tree. 



H5 




^ e p-tre mi fo e r . 



Bentley returned, bringing with him the 
equinoctial storm and a great drop in two 
thermometers; one hangs outside the bed- 
room door, the other is the sensitive creature 
holding this pen. So susceptible is the latter, 
no sooner had he returned, that I felt as never 
before the inadequacy of this house and the 
fact that our seemingly limitless wilderness 
is after all only what the surveyor pronounced 
it — two and a half acres. 

Bentley said in preface: "It was very hard 
to be true to this place," which proves that 
Gentian's place must have been very beauti- 
ful, and instead of vengeance, seduction took 
possession of Bentley's senses. 

His description of the multifarious brooks 

146 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

in Connecticut made me frantic over the lack 
of one on our land. The wonderful soil there, 
unlike ours, does not need constant overtures 
and wooing to produce things lavishly. The 
houses he told of were of an antiquity that 
made me feel I must forthwith array our 
house in swaddling clothes. 

But one thermometer has recovered her 
normal complacency, though the other one 
still hangs grumpily around 50 degrees. After 
all this is our very own home, the home that 
provided a roof over our first years of happi- 
ness together. It has kept us warm in winter, 
proved staunch in summer storms and has 
been the willing listener and conspirator in so 
many joyous, improvident plans — so many 
more delicious practical ones. 

When your house has a pleasant personality, 
what though its exterior be unromantic? And 
the dear wilderness — has it not provided us 
with just the experience we had both longed 
for and never expected to find in these subur- 
baned-to-death-days? 

We discovered here, one spot on this earth 
entirely untampered with by man since time 
immemorial. The pioneer spirit in both of 
us had free play, we carved our way through 
chaos, we wrested by force of muscle and mind 

147 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

every inch of garden from primeval con- 
fusion. 

It gave a chance for that greatest of all arts, 
the knowing of what to eliminate, and that 
second phase of genius, the knowledge of what 
not to sacrifice. When I stand in the rose- 
garden in the midst of well-cared for conven- 
tional beauty and remember its former limit- 
less history of briar and sumach, I think well 
of elimination. When I lift my eyes to the 
heights above where patriarchal pines loom 
against the clouds with an under mystery of 
tangle, I hug myself in memory of the saw 
I restrained. 

It is an almost overpowering thing to real- 
ize your power of misuse or protection over 
a great untouched province of nature. Man 
is so prone to abuse his opportunity of mastery. 
One should have a great sense of humility 
when they begin to exercise the questionable 
privilege of civilization. 

Unless you can produce something better 
you have no right to tamper with nature. 

No one should attempt a garden unless, to 
begin with, he has an illimitable love of all 
growing things. He must also possess infinite 
patience, unflagging industry, an abundance 
of common sense and eternal optimism. 

148 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

There is nothing in the world more sensitive 
to influence than a flower. They seem to feel 
instinctively whether they are beloved or not, 
and their gratitude for care is absolutely 
human. 

If anyone tells you "flowers will not grow 
for me," you need not resort to reason, to know 
it is because they bring no love to the flower. 
When a woman facetiously says to me : 

"What cabalistic words do you utter over 
j'-our roses, to make them succeed as they never 
do for me?" 

I answer practically: 

"To start with I selected a sloping spot for 
my garden to insure proper drainage, and a 
location that has been naturally blessed by a 
wind-break to the north. I buy roses only 
of rosarians, not of seedmen. I plant noth- 
ing between my roses to rob them of strength 
or prevent my walking about them to pick 
the flowers or perpetually cultivate the bushes. 
There are generous spaces of beautiful clear 
soil between the plants, where no weeds grow 
because none are ever permitted to start. Each 
week when the lawn is mowed, all grass shav- 
ings go to mulch my roses, the week-old grass 
being worked into the soil about the plants 
before the new supply is placed about them. 

149 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

Thus not only is the ground thoroughly 
aerated but it is enriched by the disintegra- 
tion of the grass and it saves me the trouble 
of watering. I pick every blossom during or 
immediately after its flowering. If a rose is 
sick, I nurse it. All the bushes are treated 
many times with stimulating commercial 
fertilizer during the strain of the blooming 
season, being careful that none ever touches 
the plant, placing it in a trench-like circle 
about it. As I look at my roses every day, 
hand picking prohibits any long victory for 
insects. So you see there is no magic; just 
constant attention, much manipulation of soil 
and a little common sense." 

I do not add to this person "and love, love, 
love'* for she could not comprehend. 



150 



'^vD 



enib e r 



The alarming behavior of the thermometer 
caused panic both in the head-gardener's heart 
and those of her flowers. When I rushed 
shiveringly about the garden yester evening 
I ached with sympathy, for the flowers looked 
scared to death. I gazed sadly at the pro- 
crastinating cosmos which have dilly-dallied 
about blooming until they may not have a 
chance at all ; perhaps they too believed those 
perfidious katy-dids. 

My tenderest chrysanthemums laden with 
hopeful swelling buds were much perturbed. 
Most of the dahlias were picked and carried 
within the unfrosty house. Like a mother 
with a threatened child, I nervously consulted 
the thermometer all evening and struck many 
a match during the night. My vigilance must 
have kept off the frost, for we passed the night 
safely. But the narrow escape warned me 
and this afternoon was spent in potting all 
my susceptible things. 

We do not have many plants in the house in 



y 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

winter, perhaps because we haven't room, but 
I think it is rather that we both feel that an 
abundance of bloom all winter long indoors, 
robs the spring of its great mission of sur- 
prise and the birth of all things new. 

Coincident with the chilliness of the past 
few days are symptoms in us of a return to 
our old winter friends, — the books. They 
will probably have to be mollified after our 
long neglect. 

Last winter we spent many evenings in re- 
visiting the wondrous land of the Doones. 
*'Lorna Doone" is one of the most expensive 
books. With its continuous and succulent 
relation of feasts, the room fairly reeked with 
savory aromas. Bentley and I would get so 
ravenously hungry, we would have to cease 
reading to make a raid on the cellar. If the 
book had not come at last to a repleted end 
I'm sure I could never have endured Bent- 
ley's ever increasing corpulency, and there is 
no telling in what condition the family 
finances would have been. 



152 




As I dug among the columbines yesterday 
with my ear close to the earth and imagina- 
tion in tune, I could scarcely believe my senses 
when I caught on a vagrant breeze a bar of 
"The King of Thule." 

"Oh!" thought I^ ''it is contrast that counts. 
To hear an air from 'Faust' in the city would 
stir no strange chord within me. Ah! what it 
means in the wilderness. Who can this min- 
strel be?" 

The sounds grew nearer and fancy tiptoed 
farther away. The tune now mingling with 
a rumble of wheels was almost upon me. I 
rose excitedly from the ground and looked 
into the roseate face of our rotund butcher, 
who was merely singing a good old Methodist 
hymn, while carrying home all that was left 
of a calf's young dream. 

"Such is realism," I sighed as I fell to earth 
again. 

But Nature has a way of comforting us 
after all, for our shattered dreams, if we will 

153 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

but wait. You elders destroy fairyland for 
us in childhood — we one day go out in the 
woods to see the carpet of moss that grew 
where the elves danced last night, we proudly 
show to you that toad-stool band-stand where 
sat the fairy orchestra, and we are told, it is 
damp and unhealthy where moss grows and 
not to touch that poisonous mushroom. But 
Nature — the good old fairy godmother — puts 
her lips to our ear and confides the great secret 
of the restoration of fairy-land, and tells us 
its name is '^Garden." 

Yesterday afternoon as Bentley and I sat in 
the soft-pedalled depths of the pine thicket, he 
whispered mysteriously shutting his eyes very 
tight: 

"Are you sure this is not the hand of Fer- 
rara I'm holding?" (so callous has my hard- 
digging palm become) when his hand sud- 
denly tightened on mine and his eyes flew 
open with incredulity. 

Had my ears deceived me twice in one 
day? — surely we heard the laugh of a robin! 
"But," thought I, "they all left us a month 
ago." 

Bentley and I scarcely breathed, but we 
gazed on each other with perfect ecstasy as we 
heard the rocking, soothing, lullaby-like song 

154 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

of a robin carolling from the great pine. 
Pulling me along after him, Bentley crept 
over the silent pine carpet until we located 
our visitor. We were riveted with the rem- 
iniscence of summer until a flight of brownish 
red left us alone with autumn again. 



155 




yJ3 '"?) O c tr o b e 1^ 



There are different standards of money in 
this world and various scales of richness, but 
my idea of absolute wealth consists in own- 
ing all the manure we need. To the un-gar- 
dening eye, the dark mountain that has sprung 
up the last week at the east of my rose-garden, 
may not be a thing of beauty. It is not due 
to any geological cataclysm, it is only a deposit 
in the bank of fertility for my flowers' future 
endowment. 

At the end of the great field of "bear corn," 
rises a whole range of mountains of the same 
variety. When I realize they were made pos- 
sible by the earnings of the very garden they 
are to return to, I feel very proud. , The 
daughter of a nearby farmer came to these so- 
called city-amateurs to buy corn yesterday; 

156 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

under the circumstances it was only human to 
feel slightly bumptious. 

Bentley was for not selling a thing out of 
the garden this summer, but after he had 
given to his heart's content of his store of 
vegetables to all the widows and maidens 
round-about and there was still much more 
than we could use, I suddenly developed 
financial genius, making a deal of exchange 
with the grocer. Our vegetables were always 
so fresh and the baskets piled so high, the vil- 
lagers on investigation of their origin began 
to come directly to us for supplies. 

I now have a sympathetic understanding of 
the ways of the market gardener — so fre- 
quently censured by myself and others for an 
apparent proneness to deception. 

It is only art, and a natural leaning to the 
beautiful in appearance that makes a gar- 
dener put his most perfect fruit or vegetable 
on top. It is very nice to find so pleasant an 
explanation of this gentle fraud, and should 
go far toward establishing a new comprehen- 
sion of the fine instincts of the general pur- 
veyors of food. 



I just heard the doctor who was passing by 
^57 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

(the nicest thing for a doctor to do) ask 
Bentley: 

"Haven't you got the automobile craze 
yet?" 

"N — no," drawled Bentley, "but I do sorely 
yearn for a jack-ass." 

When one's barber (that is Bentley's) can 
afiford a great red automobile, I feel it is very 
distinguished to possess only a good old wheel- 
barrow. 



158 




^ Octobei^ 



*'If it were not for a slight discrepancy of 
period I should be sure it was your character 
that inspired the line, 'Hope springs eternal 
in the human breast!' " quoth Bentley when I 
announced we should make wine again this 
season. ''Didn't you ever hear of the terms 
'discouraged' — 'hopeless?' " he continued. 

"I'm afraid my vocabulary hasn't acquired 
them yet," I confessed blithely. 

You see a garden eradicates all pessimistic 
weeds in one's nature; my flowers have taught 
me there is no such thing as despair. And so 
it is with the painting. Never have I taken 
out a clean canvas but I have said to myself: 
"Here goes for the greatest painting ever yet 
produced." When it is finished, the mere 
accident of its not being a masterpiece never 
keeps me from hoping it of the next; I say 

159 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

placidly: "It is as good as I can make it with 
my present development, but just wait." 

This confidence having been communicated 
to Bentley, brought forth: 

"Yes, we say certain artists and authors are 
so exceedingly modest; they are wifbout doubt 
the greatest egotists, so are we. When the 
world praises what we now do, their appre- 
ciation of our present accomplishment seems 
perfectly absurd, for we have the knowledge 
within ourselves that this is nothing — not an 
atom, of the superlative latent force we pos- 
sess. The perfect poise bred of absolute faith 
in our eventual, supernal, all-conquering 
genius, passes for modesty." 

"Yes indeed," I agreed with delight, "and 
unless an artist has this eternal faith, heaven 
help him." 

But this seems a far cry from wine. If the 
mere thought of the vintage inspires such elo- 
quence, what might the wine itself do.?^ 

We could not bring ourselves to the point 
of using our own carefully bagged grapes for 
the required ten gallons. The method of bag- 
ging is but little trouble and so very worth 
while. We get the bags by the hundreds and 
slit a small place in the end for drainage, 
then pin them about the clusters in their early 

1 60 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

stage. The vines look quite gay, and when 
the bags are opened, it is as much fun as rum- 
maging in a Christmas stocking. The grapes 
retain that exquisite bloom and perfection 
which is only attained by cheating bugs, in- 
sects, bees and birds. 

Our former landlord and very high con- 
stable, drove me far over the mountains to get 
the necessary crates of grapes. The drive was 
most enlightening for he knows all the in- 
habitants of the country, having at times 
arrested some of them, and having an eye to 
the windward for others. 

I received many sympathetic glances from 
the country people, for of course they thought, 
on account of my escort, I must be in the 
same predicament many of them had been in, 
and others feared they might be. 

It was also a chance to study politics. As 
township elections are drawing near, my con- 
stable was the recipient of many hearty hand- 
shakes and reminders of fellow-lodge mem- 
bership by aspiring candidates. 

A drive of twenty miles over mountain 
roads makes one appreciate a good road-com- 
missioner. To my delight I found the man 
who sold us the grapes held that office and 
was up for re-election, so I was able, on my 

i6i 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

return home, to tell Bentley how he must vote 
for me, 

Bentley's craving of a jack-ass came within 
one of being satisfied, for I found our road- 
commissioner had a jinny he would part with 
under proper pressure. 

Should Bentley take possession of it, I shall 
certainly get an Irish jaunting-car and peddle 
my flowers and vegetables over hill and dale, 
doing a little happy-fortune-telling on the 
side. 

It was necessary for Bentley and Mr. 
Schweinehunden to form a truce in order that 
our wine be made, for the latter owns the cider 
press we needed. Oh! but Bentley should 
have been in the diplomatic service! Mr. 
Schweinehunden was in the midst of his own 
cider-making, but the good old man dumped 
his apple-cheese out of the press, falling an 
instant victim to Bentley's engaging ways. 

The cider press is kept in an old windowless 
out-house, filled with the heterogeneous treas- 
ures of a hoarding life, and Rembradntean 
shadows. The sociable chickens, accustomed 
to roam at will^ swarmed about the floor, as 
also did the Schweinehunden cats, except 
when Vagrant made violent onslaughts on the 
assembled party, throwing us all into tempo- 

162 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

rary pandemonium. I did not dare go home 
and leave the pressing out to the men, there 
was too much live stock about, and the possi- 
bility of their making sausage instead of wine 
too apparent. 

Even if our wine turns out to be another 
case of fire-water, I have been compensated 
for my trouble by the delicious fragrance of 
those crushed grapes. So much of my joy in 
life comes through my nose, I often find my- 
self regretting it had not been the style at the 
time I was created to have at least a dozen. 

We have left the keg in the out-house to 
"work," which it does for several weeks. It 
seems such a proof of the great invisible sym- 
pathetic chord in Nature that the wine will 
again work in the spring when the grape- 
vines blossom — an echoing throb of the spring 
efHorescence. 



163 




@^ ih October. 



Bentley stuck a Shirley poppy in my hair 
yesterday, a sort of posthumous poppy, for 
the plants look dead and dried, yet all these 
last weeks they have once in a while added 
another verse to their supposed completed 
summer song. The unexpected bunch of 
lavender sweet-peas I laid on Bentley's easel 
this morning meant more than a thousand in 
August. 

These postscripts of the garden are some- 
times its most precious bits. I am sure I 
should not enjoy living in California or the 
Hawaiian Islands, where the flowers bloom 
unceasingly and gratuitously. It is the battle 
I enjoy — the attaining through struggle, vigi- 
lance, industry and the opportunity for ex- 
pending motherly love. 

Neither could I bear a whole year of un- 
abated bloom. I need my rest from beauty 
as much as the garden. It is the severe winter 

164 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

we must endure which whets our appetite 
properly for spring. In the South I used to 
take our flowers much more for granted. 

The thermometer has begun to browbeat me 
again. After a few nights of agonized fear 
and constant inspection of its menacing coun- 
tenance, I wearily complained to Bentley, 
"It's the uncertainty that sickens me. I wish 
the miserable old thing would go down in the 
thirties and be done with it." It took me at 
my word, and night before last (katy-dids to 
the contrary) the frost came. 

The lazy cosmos was spared and is now 
reminding us every day of how much they 
helped our love afifair on, three years ago. 
Bentley had never seen them until that time; 
he was so enamored of the sprays I brought to 
his studio, it was an easy transition from lov- 
ing the cosmos to love the gardener too. 

Concurrent with the frost came our second 
portion of bulbs. If a dear old sea-captain- 
of-an-uncle had pleasantly died in the Indian 
Ocean, leaving us a treasure-laden ship legacy, 
we could not have been more delighted than 
we were over our large box of bulbs. For 
many of them came from Japan, bringing 
thoughts of the fragile exquisiteness of that 
fantastic landj, while others coming from Hoi- 

i6s 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

land, reconstructed memories of its peaceful 
atmosphere disturbed by nothing more stren- 
uous than the wind-mill's deliberate wings. 
Though we knew just how they would look, 
we untied every package, examined and ex- 
claimed over the rare handsomeness of each 
variety of bulb. 

Yesterday morning Bentley was sleeping 
so musically, I decided he should be rewarded 
by having his breakfast in bed. This always 
constitutes a great luxury, and we confer the 
privilege on each other as reward of merit 
or even at times use it as a bribe. 

I slipped out in the garden to gather choice 
posies for his breakfast tray, and found myself 
quite surrounded by birds. One fellow was 
evidently practicing a new musical part; in 
the wild grape vines he sang: 



$ 



Iff: 



and that strain not being quite to his liking 
he tried: 



1^ 



qm ^^ rztrq 



tz=tz^=c-- 



Then he improvised several other variations 
on his original theme, just as a great composer 
might. 

1 66 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

Tiny birds not much larger than humming- 
birds fluttered nervously about, and plump 
round creatures of dove-grey with golden 
faces and greenish head-tops flitted every- 
where. They minded me so little, I really for- 
got all about being only a person, and broke 
into a birdlike song irresistibly. 

Bentley and I have never felt we could join 
the army of sparrow detractors. In summer 
when our woods are appropriated by the 
robins, thrushes and other large birds, the 
sparrows modestly withdraw, only appearing 
toward evening in the front road for their 
playful funny dust baths. 

They seem to have more socialistic, com- 
munistic ideas than any other birds. The 
rest of our bird friends have little or no 
affiliation with their kind, only associating 
with their chosen mate, instead of fraternizing 
generally as the sparrows do. In the fall the 
sparrows re-enter our dynasty, adding a merry 
touch to many an otherwise dreary winter's 
landscape. 

Bentley has a justification of his kindness 
to them, for we find they have successfully 
assisted him in keeping down the cabbage 
worms. 

A neighbor catches these friendly little 

167 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

birds by the dozen in her chicken-yard, where 
they unsuspectingly go within the wire netting 
in their winter extremity, to gather the crumbs 
that fall from the pullets' table. In all kind- 
ness, this neighbor sent over for our delecta- 
tion four and twenty sparrows baked within a 
pie. 

Poor Bentley almost fainted with horror 
as he gasped: 

*T'd just as soon eat Vagrant!" And I fed 
any possible relatives of the deceased with 
increased tenderness for days. The pie we 
silently buried. 



1 68 




<2 ^ Oc 



iob 



eiO. 



When we undertook the problem of con- 
quering two and a half acres of wilderness last 
spring, realizing the necessary expense of 
much hired assistance and fertilization, we 
faced the fact squarely that our first year's 
debit account would assuredly be largely in 
excess of the credit side. But in looking back 
over the past seven months in perspective, we 
find that in spite of our great expenditures 
the garden has really paid for itself. 

We have not bought a vegetable since the 
first of May, meanwhile feasting as few mon- 
archs do. 

Our cellar already looks as if we were pre- 
paring for a medieval siege, with its crates of 
potatoes, onions, cabbages and apples, the 
hanging shelf laden with preserves, canned 
vegetables and pickles, to say nothing of the 
casks of our famous home-brewed wine and 
cider. 

169 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

Our preserving and canning are done, I 
might say, in parenthesis. For it is never de- 
liberately planned, but happens incidentally 
when the spirit moves us or the hours seem 
unhampered. Bentley and I always make a 
lark of this sort of thing, accomplishing our 
preserving at night, on the sly, after the faith- 
ful Anna has gone upstairs to her well-earned 
rest. We alternately take turns, one reading 
aloud while the other fellow stirs, and before 
we know it, lo and behold, the cellar is en- 
riched by a few dozen more jars of goodies, 
and we smile over the future "Parties" made 
possible. Our garden has not only fed this 
greedy household prodigally for six months 
already, but it will provide for all our win- 
ter hunger besides. 

Bentley in making out a statement of ex- 
penses and profits put down the f(ollowing 
item: "Saved $i,ooo by the flower garden, 
it having produced all the floral offerings I 
should otherwise have had to purchase for 
one Kitty." 

Just for curiosity I counted the buds in the 
rose-garden this morning; there are ninety- 
four ready to bloom, if the frost will only 
mind its own business elsewhere for a time. 

From the Faultfinder's standpoint our 

170 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

premises have a rather ragged appearance 
now, for hundreds of gaunt sun-flower skele- 
tons appear everywhere. We are compen- 
sated for the reprieve we have given them by 
the swarms of birds they attract. 

Our not knowing the ornithological names 
of the birds does not interfere with our en- 
joyment of them, for after all^ are we not 
merely in the happy predicament of the dear 
birds themselves who are quite ignorant of 
the commonplace titles men have conferred 
on them? I think the early spring and sum- 
mer birds must be worm and insect gour- 
mands, while the birds of autumn are prob- 
ably the seed epicures. 

Quite a number of robins are using our 
garden as a way-side tavern on their journey 
south, but they do not pay their board in song, 
as our lone guest did on the thirtieth of Sep- 
tember. The present ones must be the rear- 
guard of the great robin army. 

Bentley notices a different quality in their 
mode of flying now. It is not the desultory 
flitterings of summer, but a stronger more 
pigeon-like flight. We observed during the 
summer how rarely the robins scaled the sum- 
mits of the highest pines, but they now seem 
to prefer the very crests of trees, following 

171 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

out, perhaps, some bird method of physical 
training to prepare them for their coming 
strenuous journey south. 

The garden is more full of color now than 
at any previous time. In every direction the 
eye is dazzled by the fern-like fronds of su- 
mach painted a splendid scarlet by the magic 
brush of J. Frost, N. A. (Nature Academi- 
cian). 

The wild grapes bother little with the fruit 
their cultivated relatives can bear in so much 
greater perfection, but with some wonderful 
alchemy they now change their leaves to the 
purest gold. 

After filching so much wilderness from 
Nature, we made amends by allowing her 
a reservation on the lower back hill where 
we gave her permission to be as ram- 
pantly audacious as she chose. An ever- 
changing programme of wild flowers here, 
has been almost a rebuke to our supposed 
better methods of culture. With a reckless 
disregard of perfunctory form, she has pro- 
duced a multiform beauty merely by a prodi- 
gal use of white daisies, black-eyed Susans, 
Queen Anne's Lace, yellow wild snap- 
dragons, bittersweet, goldenrod, sneeze-weed, 
sumach and the wild purple aster. 

172 




SUMACH FROM THE 
STUDIO WINDOW 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

Along the back lawn are some beds I be- 
guiled the inscrutable Anna into planting. Of 
course Anna's life is not altogether bare of 
interest, for Bentley adds much piquancy to 
her existence by such remarks as: "Look out, 
Anna, you'll bust your biler!" And when 
she slipped on the icy back steps last winter 
and sprained her ankle, Bentley pretended to 
believe the long predicted had happened, 
making daily facetious inquiries as to how her 
shattered "biler" was progressing. 

Frequent reference to her mythical ap- 
proaching marriage never fails to produce a 
pleasant flutter in Anna's reposeful bosom. 
When Bentley, who can sing or whistle farther 
ofif the key than any other living mortal, 
bursts into the kitchen quietude with strains 
of truly extraordinary discord, interpolated 
with : "Anna, don't you think my music grows 
more beautiful every day?" Anna's joy be- 
comes complete. She simpers: "It does sound 
ni-ees!" Everyone feminine existing within 
Bentley's aureola, is well content with their 
gender. 

However, not to let Bentley supply all the 
sunshine in Anna's life of drudgery, I be- 
thought me of letting her taste the pleasures 
of digging, the wonder of seed planting, the 

^11 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

excitement of watching tlie upcoming, and 
the thrill of beholding the first bud, — all of 
which gives one the actual sensation of crea- 
tion. Her little garden has been a great 
respite, I'm sure, from the kitchen stove dur- 
ing the hot summer, and has provided her 
with beautiful bunches of flowers to carry 
home proudly every Thursday and Sunday. 

Anna has even caught the contagion of seed 
harvesting, having gathered enough nastur- 
tiums, phlox, nicotiana, stocks and coreopsis 
seed to supply her family and friends as well 
as provide for a repetition of her own garden 
next year. 



174 




Bentley, a few days ago, went to hunt Mr. 
Sams to get him to do a little fall tinker- 
ing for us, and found him employed at the 
lugubrious job of polishing up the town 
hearse. 

"Why, who's dead?" Bentley asked with 
anxiety. 

"Nobody in particular," Mr. Sams enig- 
matically replied. 

In the country where even the names of all 
family horses are familiar to us, we are 
brought face to face with the raw tragedies of 
life more than when we dwelt in the city. 
Our sympathies, naturally vibrant, were often 
sadly stirred when we first came here to live, 
but as we gradually found we were apparently 
the only ones deeply grieved over deaths and 
accidents, we have learned to take a more 
philosophic, rustic view of things. Emo- 

175 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

tion is often merely a phase of education — • 
grief a form of culture. A funeral in the 
country frequently provides the children of 
the departed one the only opportunity of their 
lives to enjoy the distinction of riding in a 
slam-door carriage. 

Never shall I forget that essay on, O 
death, thou hath no sting! O grave behold 
thy victory! presented by the little mulatto 
Robert, w^ho lived in our backyard in the 
South, when his dusky mother passed on to 
brighter shores. 

In the funeral procession sat the small 
Robert in regal state in the big glass carriage, 
gazing out of its window at me, with an ec- 
static pride and more glistening teeth than I 
had ever believed one human head could hold. 

During the first weeks after our settlement 
here, a violent knock at our door at five one 
morning took Bentley in haste to the front 
studio to inquire the trouble. Leaping high 
in the air in order to be seen above the porch 
roof rim, keeping a strange rhythm to his tear- 
less ejaculation, was a neighboring urchin, 
spreading the news of "Pa's a-dyin','' "pa's 
a-dyin\" 

Once it became my wretched duty to shat- 
ter the feelings of a wife with the intelli- 

176 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

gence, all other neighbors shunned to convey, 
of her husband's hideous death. I found my 
agony of sympathy was quite unnecessary, for 
the woman's only disquietude was caused by 
the fear that the blood from "her man's" muti- 
lated body, dripping on the parlor floor, 
would obliterate the insurance policy she had 
secretly taken out on his life (in accordance 
with the advice of a fortune-teller), and had 
hidden under the carpet. 

A large hearted Hibernian took charge of 
the family of another victim of tragedy in 
our vicinity, afterward recounting many 
County Cork details of the affair to me, such 
as: "'Sarah,' I seys ter her, 'meek the byes 
clane thimselves up, the company bein' comin' 
soon, an wash yersilf fer yer gude man's nice 
funerald,' but thet 'oman be only a-thinkin' 
uv the rooster she wanted to kouck fer din- 
ner, yis-sir! 'Sarah,' agin seys I, rockin' of 
mesilf back and forrards, 'don't yer dare tek 
the rooster's hid ofif, with yer gude man lyin' 
cold an' stark in the parler.' An' on I steys 
to watch the cratur. Oh! she wus sumpin 
fierce! An' niver wunce did she sey to me, 
'have a cup of tay, Mrs. Mulligan, to warrum 
yer-silf up a bit' — no sir! it be only uv her own 
stummick she be a-thinkin'!" 

177 




t o to e rr* 



Last Sunday night after a tour outdoors 
in the chilly atmosphere Bentley came in and 
said to me: 

"Your garden is in its last throes, Kitty, why 
should you be made miserable by witnessing 
its death struggle? Come away with me on 
the honeymoon that's getting dreadfully over- 
due." 

It was after ten o'clock, but that was no 
reason why two minds could not be made up 
for a daylight flight. Our last look next 
morning from the back bedroom window dis- 
closed the first snow on the Catskills, behind 
which a great orange moon was slowly hiding 
from the sun that peeped over the eastern 
rim of the horizon. 

The first snow on the Catskills has inau- 
gurated civil war in our household for two 
years. I am always its discoverer — Bent- 

178 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

ley invariably contradicting my announcement 
by declaring it to be only the light on the au- 
tumn leaves. After dignified reiteration of 
"snow" on my part and vehement refutation 
on Bentley's side, we leave it to the Postmis- 
tress, who is never wrong about anything. This 
year we were too busy getting away to dis- 
agree on the subject except in eloquent looks. 

When on reaching the Berkshires (which 
turned out to be our destination) we found 
four inches of snow, I experienced a supreme 
verification of past and present observations. 
How snow could remain unmelted on the gold 
and red of the autumn's blaze seemed incom- 
prehensible. 

We drove up and ever upward through 
snow-laden trees, whose heavy golden limbs 
made low obeisance to the passing travelers. 

That night was spent on the gables of the 
world. 

And no one else in the whole universe knew 
where we two were. What a wonderful thing 
it is to thus get lost, with the one you love, 
cutting all ties with everyday life, beyond 
the reach of summoning telegram or banal 
letter. 

Neither Vagrant nor Anna could lay a 
thought upon us, for we had said farewells in- 

179 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

to two astonished blue eyes, and two wistful 
brown ones, going forth into space — indefinite 
space. It was such an extraordinary thing, 
that first honeymooning morning, to enter in- 
stantly into the day with an absence of that 
feeling of responsibility, unfinished labor, 
awaiting tasks, that always fills my breast at 
home even before sleep has absolutely lifted 
its seal from my lids. 

That morning in the Berkshires I danced 
into the day unshackled — a kindred of the 
butterfly, a sister to the bird. Bentley and 
I have never deliberately planned anything 
in our love-life. Even on that first nasturtium- 
day he did not ask my name — my earth name, 
nor the location of my mundane residence. 
Neither did he inquire when he should see 
me again. There is in both of us that abiding 
'faith in the eventualness of life, that makes 
plans seem trivial and, I had almost said, ama- 
teurish. 

A week after the nasturtium meeting Bent- 
ley sent a note through the friend of the next- 
door studio to "Betsy-of-the-garden," inform- 
ing her he was coming to find her and teach 
her how to paint. Never during all that first 
year of lessons in painting, in loving and other 
mysteries, did either of us ever ask — "When 

1 80 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

shall we see each other again?" So when we 
go a-holidaying, it is never long thought over, 
destination is generally vague and return 
nebulous. 

After days of gipsying in the Berkshires, 
through fields of dead golden-rod and hills 
of living fire, I grew weary of irresponsibility, 
so I whispered one morning to Bentley: "I 
am so tired of tramping over other people's 
land, I'm getting homesick for the shade of 
our pines — I even long to hear the tinkle of 
our milkman's bell. Take me home and we 
will finish our honeymoon in our own wilder- 
ness." 



i8i 




af 



After all, the best part of going away is the 
getting back home again. My predominant 
feeling on our return was the satisfaction of 
not owning more land than we can be inti- 
mately acquainted with. 1 could not bear 
being deprived, by too vast an estate, of visit- 
ing all portions of my possessions every day. 

The garden was screaming for help, so we 
only had time to kiss our hands to the studio 
and fly to the assistance of the out-of-doors. 
Bentley rushed to the last banking of his 
celery which is still to be left to grow outside 
a little longer, though others are storing theirs 
in cellars. 

I hastily began digging holes for the long 
postponed English and Spanish iris. A di- 
lettante would forever forswear gardening if 
she had to dig six hundred holes, putting a 
trowelful of sand above and below each bulb; 
although my hand was wobbly by evening, 

182 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

I was sustained by the elation of having ac- 
complished great things, while my inward eye 
was fixed on next year's iris loveliness. 

Altogether we have planted over a thou- 
sand bulbs — tulips, hyacinths and scillas. We 
already possess so many narcissi we did not 
add to our store of them this season. 

The amphitheatre will glow next spring 
with different shades of pink and old rose 
tulips, interspersed with rose colored scillas. 
Later in spring a great space will send up fox- 
glove steeples, and the perennial candy-tuft 
will make all the borders shine with white. 
Shirley poppies will again be with us here, 
with an addition of Oriental poppies for gen- 
uine splendor. On the rocky bank between 
the amphitheatre and marsh we are experi- 
menting with tulips — dark purple and white. 
If they thrive they should be startlingly beau- 
tiful seen through the pale green trunks of 
the slender poplars. 

Right here I must sing the praise of stone. 
If your land is rocky, congratulate yourself, 
for if you are judicious in how few stones you 
throw out, the perils of droughts are lessened 
for you. Mr. Schweinehunden tells of a far- 
mer in Germany who had all the stones re- 
moved from his land at great expense. His 

183 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

following crops were such failures, he had 
all the stones hauled back again. 

Wherever our land is inclined to be very 
dry, I introduce many stones to conserve the 
moisture. When planting a bank or slope 
that is greatly drained and consequently dry, 
I drive stones with the big hammer in between 
the plants, both to retain the moisture and 
resist the washing away of soil by rains. 



It seems to me I had to go away from home 
to appreciate the extraordinary beauty of our 
own garden. If any credit belongs to us it 
is because we really meddled so little with 
nature. One of the first things we realized 
convincingly was this : if you study out the 
natural, it is very sure to be the beautiful. 

Before we purchased the Wilderness, we 
of course tramped through it frequently, 
naturally making our way toward the points 
of greatest beauty. Gradually we formed 
trails through its tangles — trails that led to 
something. So it now happens there are no 
perfunctory paths through garden or wilder- 
ness, only the old trails cleared and made more 
beautiful. 

So, too, none of our flower-beds were espe- 

184 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

ciaily designed, they merely developed in the 
natural spots — skirting the edges of the dif- 
ferent pine thickets or tucked away in the 
curves of the trails, taking the place of eradi- 
cated briars. Consequently none of the flower 
stretches have conventional shapes; we do not 
possess a popular floral star or crescent, yet 
the beds are seldom straight, for when you 
follow Nature's lead you are very apt to find 
many curves. 

I do not believe the greatest landscape gar- 
dener could have thought out the perfect sym- 
metry and harmony we achieved by merely 
surrendering ourselves to the natural. 



185 




The emphasis of the season's change is only 
felt distinctly by those who abide in the coun- 
try. When the cold blasts of autumn's bugle 
announce the approach of winter, you city 
dwellers merely have to hunt up the pawn 
tickets to redeem your overcoats, or casually 
don your union-suits. The only association 
of winter's inauguration clinging to many 
minds is the odor of moth balls. But in the 
country when the Indian summer's haze van- 
ishes there begins a preparation like unto that 
of the old baronial days, when retainers 
stocked the cellars of their lord with enough 
provender to withstand an indefinite siege. 
Every hour is now devoted to snuggling things 
away. The corn must be stacked, the sweet 
potatoes dug, the onions dried out, the apples 

i86 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

picked, the cabbage buried — each day is so 
exciting and filled with real labor! 

In the flower garden the last weeds must 
be eradicated for they must not be permitted 
to drop their seed if you would lessen next 
year's trials. I have never seen the phenomena 
of the weeds' knack of impersonation com- 
mented on, yet their remarkable imitations of 
the flowers they reside beside must have been 
noticed by all gardeners. When flower seed 
come up, there is always an accompanying 
weed that sprouts up in the rows, so nearly 
identical with the flower leaf form, it is im- 
possible to tell them apart for some time. In 
the onion bed we even found a weed trying to 
form an onion-like root in the enthusiasm of 
its emulation. 

We do not throw the weeds in their seed 
stage on the compost pile, nor the old flower 
stalks and dead vines. It is best to burn them 
all, destroying their disease germs and pos- 
sible insect eggs. 

Yesterday Bentley dug a great trench, car- 
peting the bottom with leaves. This he filled 
with sixty-two heads of cabbage, tucking 
leaves between and over. "You don't know 
the wonder of handling so much color," he 
called out to me, as he gloatingly grabbed up 

187 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

armsfuU of the molten gold and copper of the 
maple leaves. 

Of course he had to add a touch of the 
original, which took the form of using the tall 
hollow tubes of the dead sunflower stalks for 
upright pipes of ventilation in the cabbage 
vault. 

He left thirty cabbages out to be used for 
our sauerkraut. Don't scoff at kraut until 
you've tried making your own. Our half bar- 
rel of last winter provided many a lunch with 
an absolute delicacy, when served with melted 
butter. The "bear-corn" is still holding out. 
We planted three kinds at once — therein lay 
the secret of success; a large variety, name 
unknown, supplied by Mr. Schweinehunden, 
black Mexican, and Country Gentlemen! The 
Mexican ripened first, the Schweinehunden 
second and the Country Gentleman we are fat- 
tening on now. 

The bagged grapes resisted the frost, sup- 
plying the luscious preface of each present 
morning's breakfast. The rose garden pro- 
vided two Richmonds for last night's din- 
ner. 

When we arrived home we found all the 
hardy chrysanthemums in full bloom — yel- 
low, pink, brown and red. The tender vari- 

i88 







THE CORN AVE PLANTED 
DAY THE BEAR CAME 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

eties have been brought up to the studio, where 
they will brighten the days far into December. 
How I love the pungent odor of the chrysan- 
themum; it seems the condensed essence of 
the autumn's perfume. 



189 




\J^i ^ October 



Here endeth the most violent day of our 
united garden existence. 

After two bitter cold rainy nights, Bent- 
ley decided Providence unassisted could not 
be expected to save that celery. Early this 
morning the family equipage began its one- 
wheeled pilgrimage from marsh to hot-bed 
carrying each trip about fifty bunches of cel- 
ery. The marsh in its ruthless haste to em- 
body my pool-dreams, has been an almost 
unbroken lake since the past two days' vio- 
lent rains, and could even have been used as 
a skating-pond had its mornings' ice been a 
little thicker. 

After being on his knees to that celery all 
summer, Bentley realized it would not be the 
proper sequence to leave it to a paltry fate at 
this late day. So this morning he began to 

190 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

store the bunches in the spent hot-bed and his 
private warm frame, placing them as thick 
as sardines, with a little soil between. The 
swimming condition of the marsh caused the 
black soil to cling intact to the celery roots, 
so there should be no interruption in their 
growth. 

Being merely female after all, I suppose I 
couldn't resist questioning after the thirteenth 
wheel-barrow of leaden weight had been 
trundled — 

"Do you still think you will plant the entire 
marsh in celery next season?" 

"Hell no!" came the sepulchral explosive 
from the hot-bed depths, "I'll never plant 
more than fifty again." 

Bentley's celery-patience has been sorely 
tried lately, almost reaching its utter decline 
yesterday when a lisping boy interrupted a 
seventy-five dollar illustration by requesting, 
"Thixt thents wuth of thelery." Bentley 
stamped the two hundred feet to the patch, 
yanking forth the desired bunch with small 
apparent appreciation of our financial gain. 

This afternoon, after a back-breaking day of 
digging roots of dahlias, besides planting my 
last hyacinths in the dial bed of the rose gar- 
den, I sighed in the vicinity of the hot-bed: 

191 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

"I feel as old as the Dunderbergs!" 

"Dunderbergs? — bosh! I'm as old as the 
first thought." 

I realized things were getting serious 
toward the end of the obsequies of the five 
hundredth celery bunch, but the real situation 
did not dawn upon me until I saw Bentley 
leap out of the hot-bed with haggard coun- 
tenance and limp Ferrara-ward. 

I took to my heels in pursuit, but arrived 
on the scene too late to prevent the climax, 
only getting there in time to hear Ferrara de- 
lightedly exclaiming: 

"Yes, yes, I understand sir — thank you." 

"Oh! Bentley, what is it?" I gasped. 

"It's done, Kitty." Bentley gleefully an- 
nounced, "I've been interrupted for seven 
cents, six cents, five cents worth of celery long 
enough, now I've disposed of some of it in 
bulk. It was fate — I always had a psycho- 
logical feeling of Ferrara's right to that patch, 
and now it's gone where it belongs." 

"You've never given him all those four hun- 
dred celery?" I grieved. 

But Bentley had danced off with a rejuven- 
ation miraculous to behold. 

I thought of the months of his marrow-bone 
service, the trenching, the planting, the bank- 

192 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

ing, the swearing. I gazed reproachfully 
upon the rapturous coutenance of the illum- 
ined Ferrara, then on looking away and find- 
ing a glowing red face peeping knowingly at 
me from behind the far purple mountains, I 
— what could I do but smile at the sun? 



193 




It rained again last night, yet the morning 
found us quite rested and content, Bentley's 
first matutinal remark being: "There are 
many worse sensations in life than mere physi- 
cal fatigue." 

Mr. Schweinehunden came over with the 
barrel of greenings we had engaged from him, 
and told a fearful tale of woe. The summer's 
drought had dealt sadly with his celery, and 
what was left of it had been quite ruined by 
the late freezing rains. 

"That's what comes of not having a marsh 
that's wet in dry weather and dry in wet 
weather," declared the rather unsympathetic 
Bentley. 

When I saw the marsh this morning I could 
scarcely applaud the veracity of the latter 
part of Bentley's bragging statement. The 
swift retribution that befell the prevaricator 

194 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

is only hearsay^ for I am thankful to say I 
was spared the harrowing sight of my lord's 
humiliation. 

This morning, it seems, Bentley had to 
fairly swim out like a muskrat, to rescue one 
bunch at a time. When in a particularly 
boggy section of the swamp it suddenly 
dawned upon him — something was giving 
away! Down sank one foot out of sight. Its 
twin used for a prop to derrick forth its 
brother foot met the same fate, being quickly 
sucked under. 

When foot number one was pulled forth 
after violent tugging, it came up minus rub- 
ber and shoe. With only its stocking protec- 
tion, it had, however, to be lowered again to 
form a brace for the rescue of foot number 
two. The latter, on being uplifted, was found 
to have also lost most of its dignified apparel. 
On being lowered to save the life of number 
one, number one was dragged forth appearing 
in a muck-raked edition of the nude, its stock- 
ing having sunk somewhere toward the earth's 
centre of gravity (or levity) . 

This bucket in the well performance becom- 
ing more and more futile, Bentley was forced 
to return to the attitude of some of his re- 
spected forefathers, to solve his dilemma, 

195 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

using his hands as adjuncts. When in his last 
extremity of hope he yelled for assistance, he 
beheld the elated Mr. Schweinehunden 
placidly standing on the safe shores of the 
firm highway, reaping his long wished-for 
revenge. 

Bentley afterwards declared: "Do you 
know, Kitty, I do believe that delighted old 
wretch was undecided for a minute whether 
to rescue me, or let me sink to my doom right 
there in the bosom of my celery!" 

Whether Mr. Schweinehunden's soul rose 
to greatness of its own volition, or whether 
Bentley assisted it to heroism by threats or 
vituperation will probably never be known. 
But the old man eventually flung a plank 
across the celery-sea, and went out on the raft, 
dragging forth an unusually humble Bentley. 
Mr. Schweinehunden then assisted to the 
house the most bedraggled looking sweetheart 
a woman's eyes ever beheld. 

After lamentations over my Bentley's trials 
and rejoicings at his rescue (all made feel- 
ingly by me at a safe distance), I inquired: 
"Of what did you think, when you realized 
you were being swallowed up — is it true that 
at such moments one's past rises before them?" 

''My past? No indeed. Only the dreadful 

196 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 
pasts of my friends loomed hideously before 



me." 



***** * * * * 

After cleanliness and dignity had been re- 
stored Bentley laughed: "Well I got rid of 
another parcel of that celery." 

"How's thatj did it too sink toward the an- 
tipodes?" 

"No. On the way back to the house, I 
awarded Mr. Schweinehunden a Carnegie 
medal of one hundred celery." 



197 





^ Novenibe v^. 



The future holds no labor problems for us, 
whatever the precarious relations of Bentley 
and Mr. Schweinehunden may be. The Fer- 
raras thoughtfully, or thoughtlessly, produced 
many children — how many I've never exactly 
known, for a new child is always appearing 
on the scene, explained variously as "cousin, 
''brother," and sometimes as plain "child." 

Bentley, when in the early stages of his late 
celery throes (before the thrilling rescue by 
Mr. Schweinhunden) was willing to thank- 
fully accept any variety of assistance, be it 
large or small. At a crucial moment two 
young Ferraras, attracted by curiosity or a de- 
sire for lucre, appeared in the marsh. It 
seemed absurd to expect adequate labor from 
such a small aggregation of years, but Bentley 
was desperate and regarded them as human 
manna descending from heaven. 

198 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

Our experience hitherto with children in 
the garden has been confined to some small 
Irish vagabonds who worked with violent en- 
thusiasm and some brogue during the early 
stages of service, rapidly developing into vio- 
lent brogue and no enthusiasm for work to- 
ward the latter part. 

These little Italians however had immense 
enthusiasm, unheard-of-stick-to-it-ness, genu- 
ine cleverness in idea assimilation, and muscle. 
After the first two Ferraras had been celery- 
assisting for about an hour, another Ferrara, 
Cyrane by name, approached, demanding a 
job. On his heels there shortly followed the 
four-year-old Tinine. Her voluble Italian was 
translated by her more Americanized broth- 
ers into an urgent request for labor. Tinine in 
her scarlet gown seemed to have a positive 
genius for getting under everyone's heels. 

She had such a faculty of swarming, it 
seemed hard to believe there was only one of 
her. When assailed by a hail-storm of in- 
vectives from her furious brothers, she would 
flee to Bentley's person for protection, grab- 
bing him beseechingly by the seat of his trou- 
sers. When the "Vendetta" seemed imminent, 
Bentley with masterly tact, solved the situa- 
tion by offering, through an interpreter, a sal- 

199 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

ary to Tinine for mere goodness, unaccom- 
panied by manual labor. 

The boys did not confine their assistance to 
the celery, but dug potatoes, weeded aspara- 
gus, and gathered apples with undiminished 
faithfulness and many songs. I have radiant 
visions of a garden future facilitated and 
made merry by the generous family Ferrara 
has improvised. 

And should Anna's long prophesied mar- 
riage ever really occur, there is Tinine whom 
the years will fit to fill the dreaded va- 
cancy. 

When the hour of payment arrived, they sat 
in line, a queer little brigade to be sure. Fif- 
teen cents was gravely handed out to the 
larger boys ; the slightly incompetent six years 
old Cyrane had only earned five cents, but he 
was presented with a penny bonus "for look- 
ing like your mother," Bentley explained. 
When it came to Tinine, Bentley alas! 
searched his pockets in vain for the promised 
cent. There was nothing to do, but give a 
verbal promissory note for her salary. 

The next afternoon they were back in full 
force as soon as school was over. Bentley 
lamented to Cesare: 

"That was too bad about Tinine's penny. 

200 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

She shall surely have it this afternoon 
though." 

"Oh! I fixed that for you," proudly con- 
fided Caesare. "I had a penny in my breeches 
what I gave her, and she never knew the dif- 
ference." 

"Well, that was nice of you," applauded the 
surprised Bentley. "But of course I'll make 
it good to you." 

"Oh! never mind that," said Caesare, with 
the air of a man of the world, "that's all right, 
sir." 

I asked the little Italians today what they 
did with all the money they have earned in 
our service. Sale responded quite as a matter 
of course : 

"Give it to our mother." 

"To save for you?" 

"No — she gives us food all the time. When 
we make money we give it to her." 

A fine sense of reciprocity indeed! 

Tinine is now receiving a salary for staying 
at home. 



20 1 




\^ -IK ]Si o ve rn to e r» . 



The greatest charm of a garden^and I am 
always finding a new greatest, is its eternal 
beckoning. Why doesn't a physician instinc- 
tively prescribe gardening to those who, for 
some tragic reason, have lost interest in life? 
One might labor faithfully in a garden half 
a century, and still leave an adorably unfin- 
ished legacy to some loved one. The only 
saddening feature is the difficult matter of 
finding the loving legatee. 

An unconquerable sentiment caused me to 
revisit my old home in the South last year. It 
was then inhabited by strangers, my parents 
having passed to the quietude of the garden 
by the church — their children scattered to 
homes of their own making, elsewhere on 
earth. 

I stood outside the fence an exile. Gazing 



202 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

past the straggling, aged box borders, my 
eyes sought in vain the beautiful old tra- 
ceries of paths — the curves of symmetrical 
beds. Alas! beds and paths had inter- 
mingled in an universal neglect. Where were 
the roses that had been my mother's heart's- 
joy and the village pride? Only a few decayed 
stalks showed here and there, distinguished 
alone by their dried, dead thorns. Even the 
magnolia trees had felt the general blight, and 
were fast inviting the felling axe. 

I could have borne the desolation and de- 
struction, perhaps, had I not spied a cow stol- 
idly grazing within the sacred domain, to the 
perfection of whose beauty my mother had 
given the loving service of a lifetime. 

So kind is memory, however, I generally 
banish this last vision from my mind's eye, and 
when I think of the garden, old recollections 
reconstruct its loveliness just as it was in its 
most beautiful days. I said to Bentley not 
long ago : 

*'We are founding the most wonderful of 
gardens — for someone/' 

If I have a prayer, it is that a sympathetic 
someone may some day love and continue its 
history long after I myself have become grass 
and violets. 

203 




>Jovembe 




I have always thought if we make believe 
long enough and hard enough, the thing 
comes true. The Wilderness is a proof of 
that. Of course another player might not 
have called it "Wilderness" because her fairy- 
bubble might have borne a different title. In 
that short-long-ago, when Bentley and I could 
have no assurance that our lives should be 
united except in dreams, we began a very fine 
make-believe, and called our game "The Wil- 
derness." 

When circumstances seemed insurmountable, 
outside prejudices assailed, we pretended that 



204 




OUR FIRST 
NOVEMBER SNOW' 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

our real everyday life was only an ugly phan- 
tom, and we were the happy residents of a 
halcyon spot called "The Wilderness." I have 
just re-read an old letter from Bentley, writ- 
ten when things looked quite unsolvable. He 
wrote : 

"Take my hand, and we will flee from 
everything that hurts — over the hills to the 
peaceful refuge of the Wilderness." 

During a particularly sick, sad time, I 
painted a picture of our dream country to 
make it seem more real. Vagrant elected to 
sleep on its damp hills one night when it was 
only half finished, which accounts for its 
"Whistleresque" efifect. An art jury might be 
blind to its hidden beauties, but to two minds 
at least, it will probably always remain an art 
treasure. 

When we moved to the country we rented 
this place because we couldn't purchase the 
Walkill house. We both loved pines and the 
many surrounding this home delighted us. 
However strange it seems to us now, it was 
indeed weeks before we found time to investi- 
gate the adjoining tangle and wood. As we 
broke through its vines and braved its briars, 
I exclaimed in rapture, "Why Bentley, this is 
the very Wilderness we dreamed of so long." 

205 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

For over a year we were only trespassers on 
our coveted preserves, having to even sufifer 
the impotent agony of seeing vandals enter at 
will, slaying a beloved cedar, or carrying 
away particularly adored poplars for bean- 
poles. 

This became more and more unbearable, 
until, as you remember, we landed the sea- 
captain and became the lawful protectors of 
our materialized dream. 

When I looked out the window this morn- 
ing and found the Wilderness all white and 
sparkling, I enticed to Bentley: 

*'Our first November snow should be the oc- 
casion of a general holiday. We shall desert 
the studio and spend the day a-wintering out- 
side. 

He looked disturbed. 

"I'm awfully sorry," he replied, *'but I have 
an engagement today that can't be broken." 

Never before in my memory of Bentley has 
there been a business engagement that could 
not be more easily broken than kept. It is no 
wonder I looked astonished. 
Then female-like I said to myself, "It's the 
first secret he has had from me," feeling in- 
ordinately sad over his lack of explanations. 
A day without him is always desultory. I did 

206 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

a thousand useless things and stared the land- 
scape threadbare from each window. 

Finally I donned my brave old garden 
shoes, rubbers, and Bentley's smoking jacket 
(which does not fit him any more since our 
large corn-harvest) and flew to the comforting 
garden. After wandering without purpose, 
my mind re-weaving the gossamer threads of 
the past, I brushed the snow from the white 
seat at the head of my rose garden, and sat 
down to contemplate the brigade of straw 
scarecrows surrounding the grey, cold sun- 
dial. 

The winter rests lightly upon our garden; 
the abundance of pines, hemlocks, firs and ce- 
dars rob the season of dreariness. In my rose 
garden alone, I seem to feel the actual sense 
of chill. Perhaps it is because so many of my 
roses have disappeared from view under their 
winter straw trousers. 

It was not yet five o'clock, yet the overhead 
sky was painted in copper pink and emerald 
green. While I was watching the sun, whose 
great pedulum has now swung far to the south, 
Bentley's approach was heralded by the vio- 
lent joy of Vag's tail. He returned with the 
same air of hidden thought he had left with 
in the forenoon. 

207 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

I was too glad to have him back to be ana- 
lytical, however. Sitting down beside me, 
he fell into the silence of one who has too 
much to say. Suddenly he bolted out: 

"Kitty, how would you like to move to Con- 
necticut to that little farm near Gentian's?" 

*'Oh! Bentley," was all I had eloquence 
enough to reply. 

"After all," he elaborated, "we have only 
two and a half acres here. There, on the farm, 
we could raise sheep, and the house has all the 
open fire-places you could desire." Still I 
could think of nothing to respond, so heavy 
was my heart. He turned on me, as I thought, 
defiantly: "What will you say when you hear 
I've disposed of this place?" 

My throat ached too much to form anything 
but a feeble "Bentley — darlin'." 

"Yes," he relentlessly proceeded. "I had 
an engagement today with a lawyer who was 
to draw up the deed. Here it is," and he pulled 
forth a gloomy-looking paper. I could hardly 
see for wetness in my eyes, but I managed to 
make out in big funereal type 

"THIS INDENTURE 

Made the 25th day of November, in the year 
one thousand nine hundred and . . . ., between 

208 




"thk ravine rocks" 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

Bentley , and Kitty , of the 

town of " 

I stopped, blinded by amazement. 

"What does it mean Bentley?" 

"It means I've disposed of my property to 
the one who, in all the world, loves it best" — 
then he whispered the terms. 

I was so overcome, I could say nothing — do 
nothing. 

Hand in hand with Vagrant following, we 
passed the rose garden, climbed the ravine 
rocks, wound through the amphitheatre to the 
pine cloister, where Bentley led me to the 
green bench. 

"One night three years ago," said he, "I 
spent an hour you did not know of, wandering 
disconsolately in your former garden, among 
the flowers you had planted and loved. I 
looked up at the light in your window and 
asked myself squarely: 'What right have I to 
offer Kitty a shaving mug, a few dishes and 
an old studio in compensation for losing all 
this?' When I left your garden I thought I 
was licked! But the shaving mug won the 
day, it seems, and I now want to add a little 
more to go with it. This is hereafter to be 
all your own garden — but I reserve the right 

209 



THE GARDEN IN THE WILDERNESS 

to retain my position as assistant gardener per- 
manently." 

I felt my face falling into the old comfort- 
able lines of childhood's abandon and — I 
bawled. 



Tonight, however, I wear a hidden smile, 
for does not Bentley have a birthday next 
June? — Don't tell anybody, but I'll just give 
the dear Wilderness back to him then! 




OCT 19 1^0^ 




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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




